


Enigma

by thirdholmes



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, British Army of the Rhine, Car Accidents, Case Fic, Cipher Clerk, Codes & Ciphers, Cold War, Drugging, Endeavour Morse Whump, Enigma - Freeform, Espionage, Established Morse/Gael, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Morse Whump, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Poisoning, Royal Corps of Signals, Serial Killers, Shooting, Signals, Special Branch, Treason, buckle up lads this story gets dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: Endeavour Morse’s life is almost beginning to feel normal, but that was before a face from the past suddenly appeared and the men from his old Signals unit start turning up dead, one after another one. And the message is clear: he’s next.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Gael Edwards
Comments: 60
Kudos: 63





	1. Valle Tameisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is kind of a variant take on Quartet since my fic canon has veered sharply from the actual canon. Anyway, I expect this to be rather long and intense, especially with all the flashbacks due to appear in later chapters, but hopefully it'll be worth your time. Not too many Morse Signals fics out there so this is my contribution. Well, as much of a contribution as a first chapter can be

Of all the ways his Sunday afternoon could have gone, Morse did not expect it to be like this. 

Morse hit the grass with a groan, falling flat on his chest and sending the air rushing from his lungs. His scratched up hands stung, bloodied and cut and he rolled onto his back, drawing in a laboured breath and looking around at one of the worst things to happen to him all year. 

The Police Widows and Orphans charity had been graciously allowed to make use of the field behind Merton College to host a fundraising fair and sports day that was open to the general public. A generous donation had come through from some large families to fund the whole affair, so there was really nothing to be lost, only to be gained. Even thought it was the end of July and the weather was fair enough, clear blue skies, shining sun, and a broad field of lush green grass, the summer had yet to prove itself anything short of mild in terms of temperature. There had been a great deal of rain over the past few weeks that led to some doubts as to whether the event would have to be postponed, but much to Morse’s chagrin and everyone else’s joy it went on as scheduled. 

A skeleton staff occupied the station while everyone was at the event and Morse had vocally entertained his hopes of remaining among them to get out of the festivities and participation. Unfortunately, Thursday shut that down without hesitation, even throwing Morse’s name in among the volunteers. 

_“You’re a sergeant now, Morse,” Thursday had said with a laugh upon seeing Morse’s shocked expression when he found his name on the posted list. “Consider taking some time off to have fun as part of your unofficial duties.”_

Right. Because making a fool of himself among all of his colleges was Morse’s idea of _fun._

Morse only saw Thursday briefly before he was swept away into the sequence of sporting events the other sergeants and constables were slated to partake in. Mrs. Thursday made sure to give Morse a hug in greeting, congratulating him on his new flat- of course she heard from Joan- and wished him luck on his events before whisking her husband away to some attraction or another.

Various vendors lined the grass selling candy floss and popcorn, with stalls running along the fence separating the field from Dead Man’s Walk, advertising tickets for raffles and games- far too many of which involved ‘shooting ranges’ for children to throw balls at targets and receive plastic badges and adhesive sergeant's stripes as prizes. Music blared from speakers- some unidentifiable pop number- and the air was filled with cheers and children shrieking and laughing as they chased each other around the field and raced between games and attractions. The paramedics and firefighters had tents of their own, the firefighters’ mainly for informational purposes and showcasing a papier mache fire hydrant and real fire hose, while the paramedics’ tent had a very real function and was there for anyone that got injured or sun sick. Even a patrol car was parked on the path and an officer stood by, allowing children to take a look at it and even climb inside. Morse pitied the poor constable that would have to clean it when that was all over. A final tent was in the far back for the officers to store their belongings- primarily changes of clothes. 

Aside from the fundraising function of the event, there was also the intention of physically bringing Oxford’s City and County police forces together under their new Thames Valley nomenclature. Since the merger, it had felt more like it was in name that practice, and now with everyone who was formerly City and County on the same field, it was meant to feel more like a grand unification. For competition’s sake, however, the teams were split alongside the former designations, an act which Morse felt effectively undermined the whole ‘unity’ aspect of it. 

Hence, his current predicament. 

City Police was rapidly losing the rope pulling contest with County, the coloured flag tied to the centre battered and frayed rope just on the verge of crossing the painted line in the grass. A sharp tug from County’s side had sent Morse off balance as he and the team pitched forward and George Fancy nearly fell on top of him as they went crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and mild cursing. 

Morse squinted his eyes against the blazing sunlight above him and forced himself up despite the painful stinging in his hands from the rope, grabbing hold of Fancy’s arm and pulling the younger man away before he could get stepped on. The two of them quickly got to their feet and stumbled back from the chaos, disqualified alongside a handful of County men. 

“You alright?” Morse asked offhandedly, and Fancy grinned broadly, his eyes alight with an insufferable childish gleam. Of course the constable was fine, he was in his bloody element in an affair like this. He treated every day at the station as a game so there was no surprise that he’d take to this sporting event like a duck to water. 

“More than alright,” Fancy nodded animatedly, pulling his shirt up to mop his brow- a white tee with the Thames Valley logo on the breast that every participating officer had been issued alongside a pair of track shorts for the event. “Would’ve been nice not to get disqualified but- Oi, there you go, Jim!” he cheered, cupping his hands together around his mouth and whooping encouragingly. 

_Jakes never had to deal with this,_ Morse thought briefly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the frivolity of it all. 

Then again, Jakes would have probably _enjoyed_ it. 

“Go on, Jim!” Someone else from the crowd shouted to Strange, the sergeant’s face brick red with effort as he and three constables held the line against County’s forces, his presence making up for the lack of remaining manpower. He’d dug his heels firmly into the ground and was slowly- and with great effort- regaining the ground they lost from the tug that lost Morse and Fancy. 

George seemed content to stay where he was in the crowd gathered around the spectacle, the commentator rattling something witty through his speaker, but Morse pushed his way through it and to the outer fringes where he could finally breathe. He dragged his forearm across his brow, unable to use his shirt like Fancy had since it was plastered to his thin chest with sweat. 

His arms burned almost as badly as his hands from the exertion. The rope pull had started out so evenly matched that it had been full minutes before the real struggle began. Fancy may not have broken much of a sweat over it, but considering Morse had been slated to verse a County officer in an obstacle course earlier and spent the moments before the rope pulling contest jumping over bales of hay and running through ladder rungs, he was downright winded. 

A large cheer erupted from the crowd as the rope slipped from a County man’s grasp and City yanked it back over the line with a strong pull, bringing down the rest of the opposition. 

_“And that’s a win for City Police!”_ the announcer declared jovially over the rounds of applause. _“Don’t forget, the relay race begins in ten minutes! Officers who are participating, please head on over to-”_

The prattling went on and Morse tuned it out, looking around the dispersing crowd for Thursday again, hoping maybe he could fabricate some excuse to leave. 

“Well that looked like a nasty spill,” an amused voice said over Morse’s shoulder and he turned to see his partner, Gael, walking toward him with a small grin, his position as one of the attending paramedics distinguished by his dark blue uniform shirt and white band with a red plus sign around his bicep. 

He almost forgot that Gael was one of the volunteers with the medics, especially since he hadn’t seen him since earlier in the morning before Morse had to leave and help with setting things up. 

“You saw that?” Morse met him halfway and braced himself on Gael’s shoulder, leaning on him heavily as he continued to regain his breath. He had half a mind to be embarrassed about it before deciding that the humour of him falling during a sporting event was considerably better than the worrying times when such action was a result of being shot. 

Gael laughed. “Hard to miss it. Here, let me see your hands.” 

Morse held out his scratched and bleeding palms and Gael winced in sympathy, taking hold of his wrists to angle them toward him. He finally got a good look at them now and saw a long line of abrasion cutting across both hands from rope burn, speckled with small bleeding cuts from the sharp, stray fibres. 

“They ought to give you gloves for this sort of thing,” Gael shook his head, casting an irritated glance over at Bright who was happily chatting away with an officer from Division. 

Morse snorted. “I think they expect us to all have enough callouses to handle it.”

“Right,” Gael chuckled and released Morse’s hands. “Come on, let’s head over to the medics’ tent, I’ll get you patched up.”

He had a sneaking suspicion that there was a slight ulterior motive to this but gladly went along with it, following Gael to the nearby tent, a large, closed off thing with coloured pickets marking off where the door flaps were. 

It wasn’t a particularly large tent but there were curtained partitions set up to give privacy to whatever patients may come in, creating stalls with cots and tables with medic kits. Surprisingly, it was rather empty, save for a medic that was shouldering a medic bag and ducking out of the tent just as they came in and one other that was turning over sheets in the furthest corner. 

“Much in?” Morse asked, looking around at the empty space. 

“Not particularly,” Gael shrugged, leading Morse over to one of the curtained stalls on the other side of the tent. “Mostly we’ve just been walking around the field with our kits, patching up a few scraped knees here and there. No turned ankles just yet.”

“And now you’ve got me.” Morse grinned and Gael laughed. 

The second Gael drew the partitioning curtain shut he turned and wrapped his arms around Morse to pull him closer as he kissed him deeply, his fingers curling around the back of Morse’s head, his other hand firmly around his waist. Morse was half about to protest that he was all sweaty and damp but it didn’t seem to matter too much and all thoughts fled his mind in an instant as he threw his arms over Gael’s shoulders. Gael was always capable of derailing any form of higher thought this way and on more than one occasion utilized that to their mutual advantage- much like now. 

It felt like a missing scene from teenage years, sneaking away from a crowd to some secluded place to snog and Morse almost laughed into the kiss. That only seemed to encourage Gael more and Morse found himself arching up against him, the scrapes on his hands forgotten for the moment as he all but melted into the contact. 

“You’re making it difficult for me to do my job, Morse,” Gael murmured against his lips, pulling away just slightly to rest their foreheads together, now as breathless as he was. A slight flush swept across his pale features, a pinkish hue blossoming on his cheeks. “Haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you the entire time.” 

“You were just waiting for an excuse to get me in here, weren’t you?” Morse raised an accusing eyebrow but he was quickly silenced with another kiss, reveling in the sweet, electrifying warmth that followed, travelling down his spine and eased his aching muscles. 

“Guilty as charged,” Gael grinned when he pulled back and Morse finally did laugh at that, giving Gael a chance to sneak a light kiss on his cheek. “It’s not my fault I hardly see you wearing anything other than those suits of yours.”

“I thought you _liked_ my suits.”

“Yes, but this isn’t too bad either.”

Morse laughed again and shoved his shoulder lightly, then hissed, the motion reminding him why they’d even gone to the medic tent in the first place. “Forgot about that.”

“Here, hold your hands still.” Gael gently took his hands and turned them palm up, guiding Morse back by his shoulders toward the cot and motioning for him to sit while he opened the kit on the table. 

It was such a subtle shift that Morse noted as Gael fell into his element, removing stray fibres of rope and debris and gently cleaning out the cuts with water and antiseptic. While the peroxide stung, watching Gael eased any discomfort, Morse finding distraction in the way the summer heat seemed to coax his hair into dark waves but at the same time tinged his delicate skin with pink from his time out in the sun. 

It only took moments before Morse’s hands were cleaned and bandaged with gauze. Gael poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, handing it over carefully and giving Morse ample time to take it. Morse hadn’t fully noticed how parched he was until he finally had water in front of him and accepted it thankfully, glad Gael had been intuitive enough to realize what Morse hadn’t. 

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” Gael said while Morse drained the glass, refilling it once he was done. “The flat’s done.”

Morse looked up sharply at that, a broad smile spreading across his face. “You’re serious?”

Gael smiled in turn, his eyes bright with excitement. “That was the last of the furniture this morning thanks to Jim, and I got the rest of the boxes and cancelled my lease before I had to come here. We’re officially moved in.”

After the Mercer shooting, Morse had stayed at Gael’s flat to recover and they soon fell into the habit of spending long periods of time at the other’s flat, half moved into each other’s places. This went on for months and by the time late spring came around Gael broached the subject of them moving in together. Properly. 

Following that came weeks of negotiations and paperwork and eventually, in mid July, they put the deposit down on a nice place between the station and the hospital. 

It wasn’t a basement space and it wasn’t Gael’s former flat above a cafe near a bus stop. In fact, it was very nearly a proper house with its ground floor and upstairs had it not technically been a row house. Regardless of the nomenclature it was a place that was, somehow, now all theirs. Eventually, Morse would have to cease guilting himself for the smaller portion of the deposit he’d been able to handle, especially when Gael insisted that the only reason he’d been working his two jobs at the hospital, doubling up on work the past few months, was to be able to pay it all himself. An unnecessary compromise was made where Morse had argued his way into contributing. While it was true that he had significantly less saved up than Gael, he didn’t want it to rest all on the other man’s shoulders, no matter how good his intentions. 

Moving in was a process that took days, much to Morse’s surprise. Whenever he moved flats in the past it had always been done within an afternoon, what with his meager possessions and whatnot. But he soon came to realise that it wasn’t just moving flats they were doing, it wasn’t just condensing their two lives into one living space. It was an attempt at creating something much more permanent. A home, perhaps. 

What Morse didn’t expect was for Strange and Gael to hit it off after both of them had been summoned to court as witnesses for a fight that had broken out in the hospital between two recovering pub brawlers, an interaction which led to Strange offering to help with the move. If Morse didn’t know any better, he’d have thought they’d become _friends._ It was entirely within the realm of possibility. Barring deranged killers, Gael seemed to make friends with nearly everyone he met. He was so outgoing and generally sociable that Morse was often confused about how exactly they fit together as a couple, but considering they had now officially moved in together it was certainly going well for them. 

Morse finished the second glass of water and sighed with relief, reaching out and grasping Gael’s hand. “I needed some good news after all this.”

“Come on, this can’t be too bad.” Gael teased. “You chase after suspects on a weekly basis, what’s a little harmless sportsmanship?”

“Hardly harmless, otherwise I wouldn’t need this.” Morse held up his bandaged hands, arching his brow. 

“Fair enough,” he admitted, looking toward the curtain as someone passed on the other side. “I think we’d better get you back to the field before they send out a search party.”

Morse stifled a groan, downing one more glass of water before getting to his feet and leading the way out of the tent as Gael held the curtain back for him. “If this is what being sergeant means I think I’d better hand in my stripes before it’s too late.”

Gael laughed and shouldered his medics satchel as they went, clearly intending to continue on his rounds, but as soon as they stepped out of the tent Morse almost literally ran into Strange who was heading their way. 

The other sergeant looked to be in an unrightfully pleasant mood, and Morse was coming to the rather irritating conclusion that he himself was the only person in the entire event that found the whole affair to be as tedious as he did. Something about competition just seemed to get everybody excited but all it did for Morse was wear him down and make him long for the simpler times of fitness training when he first joined the force. And yet, somehow, it was all meant to be _fun._

 _At least someone’s enjoying it,_ Morse thought wryly, looking at Strange’s oddly flushed face and beaming grin. He expected Fancy to be not far behind but the constable was off somewhere else, either partaking in an event or bothering Trewlove. 

“Careful there, matey,” Strange held his hands out to stop the collision, and his smile widened once he caught sight of Gael just behind Morse. He turned his focus back to Morse as they began to walk, unintentionally becoming a group as they headed back toward the main area of the field. “Say, me and a few of the other blokes are thinking about heading out to the Flag to get drinks once the last race is over, you two up for it?”

“Absolutely. And Jim, your drinks are on me,” Gael nudged the sergeant with a smile. “For helping with the moving and all.”

Strange looked pleasantly surprised.“Oh, matey, you don’t-”

“You helped us move a dresser and two mattresses up a flight of stairs. Come on, it’ll ease my guilty conscience.” 

“Cheers then,” Strange grinned, clapping him on the back. Morse could only stare, amazed at how easily Gael seemed to meld into this part of his life. “What about you then, Morse? You in?”

Morse didn’t think he’d ever agreed to anything quicker. So long as it got him out of the sun and the crowd of overly rambunctious adolescents, he was sure he’d probably even agree to take a shift writing up traffic reports. Strange clearly spotted Dr. DeBryn just ahead of them, giving pointers to his niece, Margaret, ‘fishing’ in a game set up in a wading pool, because they began to head in the direction of the pathologist, no doubt to extend an invitation as well. 

As they went, Morse spotted someone in the crowd ahead, passing in front of a row of games. 

There was no particular reason he should have caught Morse’s eye, only perhaps that he was the only man wearing a coat on a day like this. A long, grey, car coat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he walked purposefully, head turning this way and that, scanning, searching. At first Morse presumed that the man was just looking for a missing child, one that had wandered away from him into the crowd, but he was looking at the faces of the men that passed him, not looking down at the lower height where a child ought to be. 

As they neared, Morse felt an uncomfortable feeling rise in his chest and he stopped in his tracks, staring, transfixed, as the man canvassed the people around him. 

Time seemed to slow like treacle, reduced to a hesitant flow, and the man’s face found its place in his memory. 

Morse _knew him._ But surely it couldn’t be-

No, he hadn’t seen him in _years._ It was someone else. Just an uncanny resemblance. Had to be.

But the longer Morse watched him, the more he was convinced that his memory was not deceiving him. The man’s searching gaze didn’t seem to quite reach Morse and he felt an urge to call out to him, call his name to see if he would turn, but Morse hesitated. There was something too odd about the way he was acting, something unsettling about his presence. 

_What was he doing in Oxford? What was he doing_ here? 

Morse’s thoughts were cut short by a small bout of familiar laughter behind him and he realized that Strange and Gael had stopped ahead of him, looking back with mild concern. 

“Morse?” Gael ventured, walking toward him. “Is something wrong?”

Strange frowned before his eyes widened as he looked past Morse to something behind him. “Oi, what do you think you’re doing?” 

Morse turned around in time to see Fancy and two other officers holding a large pail aloft, water sloshing over the rim as they rushed up to him, and he hardly had time to react before Strange was pulling him out of the way and Gael surged forward, knocking the bucket over and dousing the men in water. Fancy leapt away, his grin dying as one officer, soaking wet and enraged, took a swing at Gael who ducked easily, allowing for Strange to release Morse and return the punch, catching the officer in the jaw. It wasn’t enough to knock him down but the man rocked backward, hands flying to his face as he reeled from the blow.

“Christ, Jim, what’d you do that for?” the officer spat a sizable amount of bloodied spit onto the ground, glaring at the sergeant. 

“You know bloody well what that was for,” Strange growled, freezing Fancy with his gaze as the young constable tried to shrink away. He turned back to the other man, expression dark. “Having a go at a man when his back is turned, taking a swing at a medic? Grow up, Sampson.” 

DeBryn looked up from where he was with his niece and he quickly passed her over to her mother, hurrying toward the scene. Within moments, Bright and Thursday appeared out of nowhere, the inspector in tow as the chief super marched purposefully toward the group of officers. 

Considering he was the one that nearly got a pail of water dumped on him, Morse should have been more concerned, but his mind was too distracted to fully focus on what was going on. In the commotion, Morse lost sight of the man he was watching in the crowd but there was no searching for him now. Tension was ratcheting up rather quickly and a small crowd was beginning to form around the scene, clearly more interesting than any of the surrounding attractions. 

“I’ve got this, Jim,” Gael waved off the attempt to defend him, stepping up to the officer, Sampson, and reaching for his jaw. “Don’t worry, I’m a medic. Let me have a look.”

Sampson’s face screwed up in disgust and he jerked away, shaking his head. “Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself, bloody p-” 

Morse didn’t catch the end of whatever slur he was about to throw at Gael because he found himself quickly moving past Strange to reach for Gael, recognizing the look that clouded his face. Gael was faster and before Morse reached him he grabbed Sampson by the shoulders and brought his knee up between the officer’s legs with considerable force, causing him to double over immediately, expression tight with pain. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Gael asked innocently, looking down at the officer who fell to his knees before him. “I couldn’t quite catch that last bit.”

“Gael-” Morse started, taking him by the shoulder, trying to pull him away before he landed himself in any further trouble. 

“It’s alright, Morse,” Gael shook his head, turning back to the officer. “No, I remember you. Sampson, wasn’t it? You’re from Kidlington. We met last autumn.” 

Morse stared at the officer, studying his face, and could now picture him as one of the uniformed officers from Kidlington that had been at the riot nearly a year ago. Gael’s memory of him had clearly been better, and it seemed Sampson recognized Gael as well because his eyes widened even further. 

“The hell is going on here?” Bright’s sharp voice cut through the small group and everyone’s eyes turned to the superintendent who was surveying the two officers, his gaze falling critically on Fancy who looked as guilty as a hanged man, his eyes wide with confusion and surprise. 

“Bit of harmless fun, innit?” Sampson’s accomplice said with a shrug as he pulled the man to his feet despite his continued wincing. “It was just some water, no harm in it.”

“Right, because I _didn’t_ hear you calling Morse ‘the Cowley queer’ when I ran into you earlier, Davies.” Strange shot back, and Morse averted his eyes down to the ground for a moment, pressing his lips together tightly. 

Fancy blanched at that statement, looking both furious at Sampson and Davies and guilty at himself. He gave Morse an apologetic glance, stammering, “Morse, I didn’t know- they said it would just be a laugh-”

“Alright, constable, that’s enough.” Bright held up a hand, stilling his words. “I’ll be speaking with you in a moment. As for you two,” he leveled his piercing glare at the other two officers. “Mark my words, I’ll be corresponding with your superiors and relaying your inappropriate conduct with no redactions granted. Whatever bit of tomfoolery you may or may not have intended escalated to an unacceptable degree when you attempted to assault Mr. Edwards here. And if what Sergeant Strange is alluding about your motivations comes to be true, you’ll have a lot more to answer for. Have I made myself clear?”

Count on Bright to have Gael’s back. Morse almost smiled at the oddness of it all. It seemed that the nurse had yet to fall out of favour with him, and Morse had no doubt that Gael’s record would remain clean even after what he did to Sampson. No one would want to challenge Bright over it, especially when Sampson’s vendetta came out. 

“I’d suggest you take this opportunity to leave and _cool off_ as some are fond of saying,” DeBryn said testily, jumping in. “Otherwise I’m sure we’ll find alternate ways of going about that. I am in possession of many body sized freezers, but your overinflated egos might be in need of puncturing in order for you to fit.”

Morse disguised his laugh as a cough, folding his hands behind his back as he stood up straighter, observing the considerably cowed expressions on Sampson and Davies’ faces. 

“I think what the good doctor is trying to say in his eloquent way is to get out of our sight before I decide to press this any further.” Bright snapped. “I won’t tolerate any form of harassment against my men, is that understood?”

They gave their assent and Thursday grabbed them by the collars of their shirts, all but flinging them away before he set out to ease the small crowd, sending people on their way, and the fair continued around them. 

“Morse, I’m really sorry,” Fancy approached him cautiously, avoiding Strange’s withering stare. “Davies was a pal from County, he just said it would be something funny, I was meant to go ahead and distract you. I didn’t know they meant anything by it, I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, I swear.”

Morse gave Fancy a considerate look, deciding that he did seem truly ashamed of his actions. _Or his gullibility,_ Morse thought. It would be all too easy to hold it against the constable, but the short and long of it was that he was tricked, and Morse was beyond blaming him for that, despite how irritating the younger man could be. 

Eventually, he held out his hand, careful to avoid the puddle of water as he stepped toward him. “Water under.” _Quite literally, apparently._

Fancy’s expression brightened and Morse was reminded of Trewlove’s comment about how he resembled an eager puppy dog. “Really, you mean it?”

“Of course.” Morse said, shaking Fancy’s hand. “Come on, we’re off to the pub in a bit, I’ll buy you a drink.” He wasn’t sure where that last bit came from but it was too late to take it back. 

“Brilliant!” Fancy grinned, and Bright seemed pleased with the rapid resolution of the issue, turning to share a few words with Thursday before heading off. 

Morse gave the crowd another look over, searching for the man he saw earlier, but there was no sign of him. It couldn’t have been a figment of his imagination. He was there, clear as day. The only question was _why._

Gael touched his arm lightly, gently drawing him out of his stupor, and Morse looked to see his concerned eyes, brow furrowed as he gave Morse a once over. “Everything alright?”

He cast one last glance at the spot he saw the man last. A face he hadn’t seen since Berlin was cut in two. Since- well, that was best forgotten. 

“I’m not sure.” Morse admitted, and Gael seemed to recognize that he wasn’t going to elaborate much further. Not then, anyway. 

As they went to join Strange, however, Morse couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that he was being watched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Another Place
> 
> Well, Morse and Gael have a flat, Bright decimated a homophobe, and Morse saw an ominious face from the past ~foreshadowing~. How's that for chapter one? I've maintained that this fic is definitely going to be on the darker side but of course it'll be interspersed with softe Gael/Morse content because I guess that's part of my brand now. The next chapter shouldn't be too far off since I have a decent outline but we'll see what happens.  
> I know this chapter doesn't have much to contribute to the major plot but any thoughts/impressions/feedback so far are greatly appreciated as always!


	2. Another Place

The Flag was crowded enough at that time of day, especially with summer cresting where they were at the end of July. The weather appeared to be slowly tailing down to what many expected to be a rather mild August which Morse didn’t find all too disagreeable. Better than the sweltering heat, anyhow. What windows in the pub even  _ could  _ be were propped open, allowing for a slight breeze to slip in and drift over the patrons, stirring locks of hair and clothing fabric, rustling the leaves and flowers of the bushes outside of the windows. The sun caught itself off the patchwork of colourfully stained glass and cast a mosaic of colour that danced across the dark, wood paneled walls and tables, bathing the usually dim interior with light and vibrancy. 

The perpetual smell of tobacco hung in the air, pushed around from corner to corner, conglomerating in clouds and plumes from chimney-stack groups of men and women talking animatedly over their drinks in one hand, cigarettes in another. It was nothing like the chaotic din at the fair, it was much more contained and toned down, familiar and in a way, comforting. None of the late afternoon rowdiness had struck just yet, likely with most people out at the fair or otherwise occupied, and the students from the colleges having gone home since June. It was the closest to calm Morse had experienced all day and the drone of background noise was enough to help him escape the never ending tirade of his own thoughts. Ever since the man at the fair, Morse had been looking over his shoulder at the slightest of sounds, wholly expecting him to appear again. His nerves had manifested in picking at a loose thread on his sleeve and it was only after he shoved his hands in his pockets was he able to keep his cuff intact. 

He thought that perhaps he was hiding it well enough, and Fancy, Strange, and the few others who joined didn’t seem to give much notice, but of course Gael saw. Saw right through him as always. And in seeing that he also saw the unspoken wall Morse had thrown up around the subject. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not until anything came of it. No one knew what he saw, who he saw, or what it meant. Morse wasn’t even sure what it meant. But it certainly wasn’t anything good. 

Memories hung across the sky of his mind like storm clouds with no wind to chase them away. They were trapped where they gathered, dark, dense, and foreboding. No force to scatter them.

Well, it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. 

Morse sat down with a small groan, his already stiffening muscles protesting against the movement as he set his and Fancy’s drinks down on two beermats, sliding the promised pint of lager over to the beaming constable as an alcoholic olive branch. Changing back out of the track clothes had been one blessing out of many and Morse could feel the coolness of the chair seeping through the back of his thin dress shirt rather than sweat. 

“God, I needed this,” Fancy praised as he downed a good portion of his drink in one go. His upper lip remained coated with a sheen of residual foam but he wiped it away before Morse could point it out.

“You’re telling me,” Morse couldn’t help but agree after taking a swig of his own beer, looking over as Gael made his way back from the bar with his and Strange’s drinks, frothy amber liquid threatening to spill over the edge. Thankfully, he had enough grace to prevent a spill and deposited the glasses on the table before taking a seat next to Morse. 

“Cheers, matey.” Strange accepted his drink and raised it in a half sort of toast which the other three mirrored in one way or another. 

The other officers invited along seemed to have dispersed into their own groups, and Morse saw Fancy’s gaze break away more than once to where Trewlove was sitting with one of her friends from County. 

City. County. Thames Valley. It was going to take a bit more practice to think of them all as one. 

Morse finished over half his pint over an indeterminate amount of time that was lost to scattered, mindless conversation that he only vaguely recognized himself as taking part of. Something about the quarrel at the fair, the new flat, the merger, and Gael and Fancy seemed to share a somewhat similar taste in music that led down a whole other avenue Morse struggled to accompany them down. Even Strange had a bit of a hard time keeping up and occasionally tried to shift the topic toward more familiar territory for him- which of course meant sports. 

As glasses clinked and people talked, Morse tried to remain grounded as he felt himself slipping down the rabbit hole, catching fluttering fragments of emotions, pieces of an atmosphere long gone, passing across his mind. 

_ This isn’t Berlin,  _ he reminded himself. 

_ But then why is  _ he  _ here?  _ the rebellious voice in his head countered. 

And that was when Morse realized his eyes had fixed on those of a man sitting in the corner of a booth across the room. A man who was staring back at him. 

Not just any man. 

Him. 

It was  _ him.  _ There was no doubt about it now. 

Morse should have made an excuse to leave, hidden in the bathroom, done something other than just sit there and watch as the man rose from his seat, leaving his grey jacket and drink behind as he began making his way across the room toward Morse. 

_ No. Don’t.  _ Morse thought somewhat desperately, but was frozen in inaction. 

Fancy frowned, noticing the expression on Morse’s face. “Something wrong?”

Morse didn’t respond and Gael followed his line of sight as he stared. “Morse? Who is that?”

By the time the man reached their table, Morse had finally found the sense to get to his feet, feeling an invisible tremor in his legs but somehow remaining upright. 

The man looked Morse up and down for a moment, something akin to surprise, perhaps even wonder passing across his features as he studied him like a long lost relative. To Morse it felt like there was a bomb strapped to him and he was looking it over to see how to diffuse it. 

“You’ve...changed.” he said at last, breaking the wall of silence that had enshrouded the table, all eyes on the strange newcomer. 

_ That was what he had to say?  _ It seemed unbelievable that he could manage to conjure up some figment of normalcy between them after what had happened one of the last times they set eyes on each other. 

Morse swallowed thickly, battling the incomprehensible storm of anger, confusion, and bafflement that exploded into a grand maelstrom inside of him as he looked over the familiar, yet changed face of the man who had once been one of his closest friends during his years in Signals. “So have you.”

Henry Auden had always been handsome, that much Morse knew to be true, but that handsomeness had adjusted with age, leaving a more weathered face behind, erasing the smoothness of youth. When they first met he had vaguely resembled a grown cherub with his rounder, softer features, but they seemed to have hardened over the years, now more angular and defined. His firm jaw was decorated in dark stubble and his dull brown curls were already greying at the temples even though he wasn’t many years older than Morse. 

Auden hadn’t been the strongest of people back in those days, but he looked to have gained a volume of physical strength that Morse was certain he’d never be able to obtain- nor would he want to. Henry didn’t look like the cipher clerk he was when Morse last saw him in 1961. Now, he looked like a soldier. 

And for some strange reason, he was  _ there _ . In Oxford. 

Morse hadn’t spoken to anyone from Signals since he left with his service record in hand and a fresh feeling of abandonment as he stepped off the plane that brought them back from the continent, unsure of how he was to go about rebuilding his life. 

The only thing he knew was that he wanted to leave them all behind.

Leave  _ Auden  _ behind. 

Strange cleared his throat, taking the initiative to break the tension before it regained its initial strength. It was enough to bring Morse back to the present and force him look around at the three faces giving him odd looks that certainly weren’t unwarranted. Their explanations would come before his own. 

Introductions appeared to be a courtesy Morse was meant to utilize in that moment and the thought had utterly evaded him until that second, leading to an awkward hesitation before he figured out what to say. He looked back at Auden before gesturing to everyone in turn. “Henry Auden. This is Detective Constable Fancy, Detective Sergeant Strange, and Gael Edwards.”

“Pleased to meet you all.” Auden said with a charming smile, shaking all of their hands. His gaze lingering on Gael as the two locked eyes and Gael gave him a vaguely critical look before releasing his hand, clearly harbouring his own unease about the man. 

The solidarity was a burst of relief that cut through the dense veil Morse felt his mind shrouded in and it felt like for a moment he could breathe again. Only a moment.

Strange and Fancy simply stared at the newcomer, unsure whether or not to say anything. Somehow the pub had unpleasantly shrunk down to the few feet between Morse and Auden, forcing everyone else out of the picture. 

Auden pushed his hands into his pockets, unblinking as he looked at him. “I didn’t mean to ambush you in front of your friends like this, Morse. I’m sorry.”

_ I’m sorry.  _ Morse had heard that from him before. It didn’t mean anything then. It meant very little now. 

“Well, you’ve done it.” Morse looked down at the ring of water around his glass, chasing the moisture with his fingertip until it had been smeared away across the chipped wood. Purely to put out the false image that he was unbothered, Morse met his eyes again, this time holding steady. “What do you want, Auden?”

“We need to talk.”

Morse scoffed. “I seriously doubt that.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I just need to speak to you for a few minutes. Just a few minutes and I’m out of your hair.” Auden promised, his tone just desperate enough to make Morse consider it. 

_ Just a few minutes and I’m out of your hair. _

_ Out of your life again,  _ was what it sounded like. 

Just seeing Auden’s face and hearing his voice, being in his presence- it had opened up an entire door in his memory that he’d almost forgotten existed, rusted shut with disuse until circumstance pried it open. 

He didn’t want to see what was on the other side. 

Not again.

But Morse knew that if he continued down this road of hostility it was going to quickly turn into a scene. It already was. And Gael was there. He wanted to put as much distance between Gael and Auden as possible. Between himself and Auden. He’d succeeded well enough for seven years. He wondered how much time could be bought with a few minutes. 

“Fine.” Morse nodded as amicably as he could but the gesture was as stiff as his muscles were, and even stepping away from his chair seemed to reactivate a new set of shin splints. 

“Morse.” Gael said, drawing his gaze. There was a look on his face, one that meant all Morse had to do was say the word and he’d intervene. 

“I’ll be back in a bit.” Morse grabbed his unfinished pint, knowing he needed it now more than ever. 

Auden looked visibly relieved and Morse was taken aback by that. Something really was bothering the man. But what the hell did Morse have to do with anything?

He followed Auden to the opposite side of the room where he was sitting, waiting for him to ease his way into the bench before Morse set his glass down and drew out a chair opposite him. 

Morse took one look at Auden’s drink and nearly laughed out loud. 

It had been West Berlin, 1960, the first time Henry had that drink. Their entire group within the detachment, Morse, Auden, and five others, had gone out into the town for drinks at their usual pub. Morse was still on the pledge at the time, but all the others strictly ordered sturdy German beers- only this time Auden had mused about what a gin and bitter tasted like and ordered that on a whim. The barmaid was new and her English was as poor as Auden’s German, so Morse’s lemonade order and Auden’s gin had gotten accidentally mixed together into what their supervisor, John Warlow, called with a roar of laughter, a London Lemonade. 

Auden had taken a liking to it and consequently continued to order gin and bitters, but _ “with more lemon than gin.”  _ At one point it had become too hostile for them to continue going to the pubs so routinely so Auden would spend his breaks in the kitchen of the detachment’s house mixing gin and lemonade himself. It was strange how a memory Morse thought was so obscure, so buried and forgotten, could be resurrected just like that. Seven years since the last time he saw Auden. Had time really gone by so quickly? It was almost unfathomable. But, then again, Morse’s life was anything but slow. And it wasn’t as if the ghosts of his past ever remained strangers for very long. 

Henry Auden’s current presence was a testament to that. 

“Gael Edwards,” Auden repeated the name as he sat down and closed his hands around his glass, taking a drink. Morse hated the way Gael’s name sounded in Auden’s voice, hated that Auden had touched him, even seen him. “Friend, is he?”

_ A bit more than that.  _ “Yes.”

“Guardian angel, more like.” he raised an eyebrow over his drink and set it down, ice clinking against the glass as it settled into stillness. “I saw that altercation at the fair. He’s good in a fight, that Edwards. Reminds me of Lomas.”

Morse didn’t want to discuss Gael with him, and he certainly wasn’t going in for small talk. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair, channelling his irritation, his anger, into a piercing look. “What are you doing here? And why have you been following me?”

“I’d rather we did this outside, Morse.” Auden ran a hand over his short hair, looking around at the tables of people around them with a suspicious sort of scrutiny. 

“If you think I’m falling for that then you can just leave right now,” Morse shook his head adamantly. “You can walk right out of here and straight into the Thames. I mean it, Auden.”

“Henry,” he insisted, remaining unflinching from the intensity of Morse’s stare. “You used to call me Henry.”

Morse raised an eyebrow briefly before shaking his head again. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago, surely.” Auden tried for a smile. 

_ What was this? _

“Seven years.” Morse hissed, no longer caring to hold back his hostility. “Apparently it’s been enough time for you to forget what you did.” 

“You were never good at holding grudges, Morse. It doesn’t suit you.” Auden took a long drink of his gin and lemonade, irritatingly calm. “Besides, I made sure it never made it onto your record, everything was clean-”

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about what you did to Warlow.” Morse cut him off sharply, feeling heat rise in his neck. “John Warlow. You remember him, don’t you? I might be able to forgive the indignities against myself, but-”

“Morse, I didn’t come here to fight, please-”

No plea would get Auden anywhere. “You killed him. Warlow was innocent and you got him killed. You didn’t care about him, you didn’t even  _ think  _ about Eva-”

“Well,” Auden held up his hand and that was when Morse got a good look at the gold band around his finger, its age inscribed in various scratches and nicks. “I married her.”

Morse could only stare, trying to find words as something unpleasant stirred in his chest. “You can’t be serious.”

“I know it seems...well, I know how it looks-”

Morse scoffed in disbelief, his eyes wide as he stared incredulously at the man before him. “You married his widow. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you thought you could do that.”

Eva Warlow had been the wife of John Warlow, one of the older men in their Berlin detachment. John had been brought in on National Service but once it phased out he decided to stay on with Signals. Morse was the youngest of their group at twenty one when he joined on, Warlow the eldest at twenty seven. The only married one among them. He seemed so old for it, but he wasn’t even much older than Auden. Warlow would be nearing thirty five now. 

_ Well, he would have been, had he not been killed.  _

Killed, because of Auden. Because Auden was wrong. He’d been wrong about Warlow, he’d been wrong about Morse- and he never seemed to pay for his own mistakes. 

“Marriage goes both ways, Morse.” Auden looked at his ring and Morse felt his stomach twist in disgust. “She’s the one who said yes.”

“Oh, so she knows what you did, then?”

“Of course she does.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

“And I’m not asking you to.” Auden leaned forward intently, his expression grave. “I’m not here to talk about her. I’m here to talk about John. About you. Because I don’t need your forgiveness, I’d never dream of asking for it, but I need your help, I need your trust-”

“Trust goes both ways.” Morse parodied his previous words, taking a long drink of his pint and draining the glass. “You didn’t trust me, Auden.”

“I trust you now.” Auden said sincerely. “I was wrong. Back then. I can’t apologize enough.”

Morse snorted. “I don’t want an apology from you.”

“Then what do you want, Morse?” Auden threw his hands up, looking utterly lost, his eyes wide and full of-  _ something.  _ Morse didn’t care to identify it. The couple sitting at the table next to theirs shot Auden a strange glance before continuing their own conversation and he took the hint to lower his tone, but it in do way dampered the intensity of his voice. “What can I do that hasn’t already been fixed? You didn’t seem to hold it against Adam- what he did-”

“There’s a difference,  _ Henry.”  _ Morse ground the name out, forcing him into silence with it. “Adam did what he did. But at the end of the day, he was the one who got me out of the cell you threw me in. He hurt Warlow. He hurt me. But  _ you  _ betrayed us, not the other way around.  _ You  _ got him killed. And you didn’t seem to care whether I was next.”

Auden buried his head in his hands. “Of course I cared, Morse. God, you think I  _ didn’t?  _ I wasn’t lying when I told you- when I said- about how I felt-” he looked up and Morse quickly averted his eyes, swallowing down the lump of unpleasant emotion in his throat. “But you don’t want to hear me say it again.”

“I’m sure your  _ wife  _ wouldn’t.” Morse scoffed, taking another drink. “Unless you told her about that as well.”

From the look on his face, Morse knew that he hadn’t. Of course not. For all his adeptness when it came to verbal sparring, for whatever physical strength he looked like he held now, he was never good at confrontation. He could set things in motion and watch them happen, but he was never prepared for the consequences. He could put up a row of dominoes to fall but would never be able to face the mess he made once they all fell. Not until he was unwittingly buried beneath it all. Only then could he not escape.

Cowardice wasn’t the right word, but Morse spent nearly two years working with him and couldn’t come up with a better one by the end of it. 

_ That’s just how he’s built. One day he’ll let you down, and he won’t bother to pick you back up,  _ that same soundless voice said in Morse’s head. 

Strange how they were only thoughts, but they seemed to hold a voice to them. A tone that wasn’t quite his. 

But it was right. Perhaps that was the main reason behind his continued resentment of Auden. Morse could have forgiven the man years ago. They were good friends before everything fell apart. Nearly inseparable. The problem was that, in the end, Morse thought Auden was wrong, and Auden thought he was right. They were two cars crashing into each other with both drivers claiming their own innocence. Auden got to walk away from the wreckage. Morse was left among it. 

That was the problem. That, of course, and the betrayal. The absence of trust so large that it should have been capable of developing its own gravitational pull. 

It was that frame of thought Morse found himself in that made Auden’s next words all the more surprising. 

“You said I didn’t care that you were next. But  _ that's  _ what I’m here about.” Auden said urgently, but underneath that urgency Morse could see he was wounded. It gave him a sick sort of satisfaction to see it. “You  _ are  _ next. Any one of us, I think.”

Morse stared. “I don’t understand.”

“Declan and Mikhail are dead, Morse.” 

Morse was glad he was sitting, otherwise he was sure he would have felt the floor drop out from beneath him. 

“When.” Morse found himself finally able to grind out, feeling his heart climb into his throat and effectively choke off anything else he might have wanted to say. His mind was running a million miles a second, and in that frenzy he could only find one more word. “How.”

“We really should take this outside.” Auden said gently, and for a moment Morse saw a sad tenderness in his dark eyes that reminded him of the former version of the man. The one that looked more like the Cambridge dropout Morse met in Birgelen who knew more about the Dutch masters than Germany. The one who used to be his friend. Not the man he’d been talking to for the past however many minutes, the man playing soldier with his flimsy assertiveness and facade of calm. 

Underneath it all, Morse could finally see what Auden had been trying to hide. What had slipped through the cracks just a few times, manifesting in his urgency.

_ He was afraid.  _

And Morse was beginning to get the odd feeling that he was supposed to be as well. 

Morse gave a stiff nod and Auden’s shoulders visibly sank in relief. He gathered his grey coat into his arms and wove his way around the table, making his way toward a small corridor that led to the gents and a back door out to the alleyway. Morse cast a quick glance over to Gael, Strange and Fancy, unsurprised that Gael was watching him worriedly, half out of his seat like he was considering following Morse. 

_ Guardian angel,  _ Henry said. He wasn’t so wrong about that. 

Morse waved a reassuring hand that seemed to settle him just enough and turned to follow Auden outside, back into the summer heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Another Time
> 
> So..Henry Auden is an interesting fella. It's kind of different to have this developed character thrown in without explanation because I'll be explaining his character (and the incident with John Warlow they keep referring to) more through the flashbacks in later chapters and right now he's just kind of here... But I couldn't think of another way to format it that I liked so it'll have to be slightly confusing for now
> 
> The next update shouldn't be too far off, I'm practically half done with the chapter so there should be less of a wait this time. The flashbacks will begin and I'm pretty excited to start getting into those because I really did want this story to be more about Morse's past in Signals and I promise that content is coming, it's just going to be interspersed with the present crimes.


	3. Another Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to keep signing petitions, donating, and protesting for Black Lives Matter!

_ June 26, 1960 _

_ Mercury Barracks, Birgelen, Germany _

_ Inter-regimental sporting tournaments had always struck Morse as something of a bore. He had some understanding that they were meant to boost morale and create a greater sense of comradery and so on and so forth, but he couldn’t seem to find what everyone else saw in it. Even at Oxford his learning to punt had been more of a social necessity than something he elected to do simply out of idle leisure.  _

_ So far Morse had been successful in avoiding the numerous football tournaments that seemed to crop up every now and then when the weather of the season permitted it. But now, unfortunately, in honour of the Major General visiting, it had been decided that the 13th Signals regiment was to throw together a bit of a rifle shooting tournament to add a bit of flare to the whole affair. Somehow, Morse’s marksmanship scores had become common knowledge among the men in the barracks so there was no possible way he was going to get out of this one, not when his participation seemed to be more of an order than a suggestion. John Warlow, one of the more senior officers among the cipher clerks, had approached Morse the day before and made it fairly obvious that his involvement was expected.  _

_ Morse only knew most of the men to say good morning and good evening to, he’d yet to really make any proper friends in the barracks, and even those he roomed with. Soren Doyle was a quiet man, good at his station, surely, but Morse knew little else about him and never made any attempts to do so. The third roommate’s surname was Barrow. Morse didn’t remember his first name, but he was loud and obtrusive and that was all he knew of him, refusing to listen to his endless pratter about some “bird” he had waiting for him “back home”. Barrow never actually seemed to give his girlfriend’s name, and at one point Soren asked Morse if he thought Barrow actually had a girl or it was just a pet canary he was overly fond of talking about.  _

_ That made him laugh. Soren was alright.  _

_ Meeting John Warlow was somewhat of an accident. He was an officer of some rank, having been on with Signals since his National Service began, then stayed on to continue serving and moved up from cipher clerk to lieutenant, if Morse remembered correctly. Once or twice, Morse had been brought before one higher official or another to be either questioned or commended on his work transcribing Morse code on the teleprinter as messages were sent out to various stations around Germany. They would ask about his high score in cryptography when he was testing during his enlistment, his proficiency with Morse code, crack some joke about his name, move him to a new project, and that would be that. On one such occasion, no more than a few months ago, Lieutenant Warlow was present. He was a tall, narrow faced man not much older than Morse with a thick sweep of brown hair that he kept under his cap, his eyes warm and expression friendly, unlike the hardfaced superiors that Morse had become accustomed to. Morse sat down and the usual process commenced, and once it was over, Warlow asked if Morse liked puzzles.  _

_ The Signals magazine, The Wire, was good enough to contain certain quiz sections and puzzles among the various advertisements and external job offers for returning servicemen, which Morse found himself openly complaining about. This seemed to amuse Warlow to no end and soon Morse developed an odd symbiosis with him. Whenever Warlow finished with the newspaper his wife in London invariably sent him every week, he would give Morse the crosswords, keeping the sports for himself. Morse wouldn’t go so far as to say they were friends, but Warlow was a good man. They would talk sometimes, go for a walk around the village, and for the first time since arriving in Germany, Morse actually felt completely comfortable around someone.  _

_ “It’s all just a grand show, Morse,” Warlow clapped him on the shoulder good naturedly as they stood outside of the canteen the day before the Major General was due to visit. “Wheatley’s going to tour the barracks, speak to the commanding officers, see a bit of how we operate and we pretend to care about his appraisal, but one must dilute the dullness of bureaucracy somehow. And apparently that means destroying innocent clay pigeons. Certa cito, Vivat Regina, et cetera, et cetera.” _

_ Morse had to laugh a little at that. His own laugh sounded strange to himself over the past year, and he was coming to realize that it was more because it was growing more and more unfamiliar by the day. Dulled with disuse. He hadn’t much cause to laugh, even smile, since he left Oxford, but it was even before that, wasn’t it? Ever since Susan- _

_ It was time to stop thinking about her. But he couldn’t quite seem to manage it.  _

_ “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.” Warlow assured Morse before disappearing into the canteen.  _

_ “That’s not what-” Morse began, but the man was already gone.  _

_ That was how, the next day, he found himself holding a rifle, the first gun he’d even touched since basic training nearly a year ago.  _

_ The tournament began in a small stretch of green within the barracks, bordered by symmetrical white buildings with their copper toned roofs. Someone had set up a catapult for launching clay pigeons and painted a white line across the ailing grass to mark where the shooters were meant to stand. A table was set up nearby with a small, shining gold trophy for the top shooter. A frivolous prize that meant very little at all.  _

_ With more reluctance than Morse was comfortable with, he shuffled into place alongside the others, resisting the urge to wipe his brow as the summer sun beat down despite the greyness of the cloudy sky and sweat prickled on his brow. At least they had short sleeved uniforms on which was at least a small mercy. The heat had gotten to the point where there wasn’t a patch of grass to be seen that wasn’t tipped with withered brown blades and they snapped as he walked, brittle and weak under Morse’s feet. Rain was promised later, and Morse could only assume that the clouds above would darken with time.  _

_ The weight of the weapon in his hand was unfamiliar, polished wood and smooth metal foreign to his fingertips and he curled his hands around the rifle handed to him. _

_ Morse felt a wry smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Not so unfamiliar. Anthony Donn was rather fond of clay pigeon shooting, not so much because he was good at it, but because it was simply what the idle rich were meant to do. Shoot, punt, drink. Morse hadn’t mastered that last one yet.  _

_ The rifle in his hand was tarnished, and he could feel scratches and chips and small dents underneath his fingers, much more well used but less taken care of than the decorative, treasured things that the Donns possessed. Those were toys. This was a weapon. Morse didn’t much care for weapons.  _

_ To make it competitive they were paired up and each pair had a chance to shoot at a target. It would go around, tournament style, until someone from the pair missed and they were disqualified, sending the other up to continue. It was simple enough, but Morse didn’t know how good a shot some of these men were. This could go on for much longer than anyone wanted.  _

_ Still, he made a good show of things and caught Warlow giving him an encouraging smile from where he stood alongside the other higher officers and the visiting Representative Colonel Commandant, Major-General Wheatley, identified by his uniform. One officer caused an uproar of laughter as he stepped up to shoot and made a show of wetting his finger and sticking it into the air, pretending to be gaging the wind. Unfortunately, his jest was short lived and he missed the target, the clay pigeon shattering against the nearest rooftop available to intercept its fall.  _

_ It wasn’t too long before Morse made it into the final four, himself and three other cipher clerks he vaguely recognized from around the stations in the barracks. The man he was going up against was more familiar than the others. From the introductions in the beginning of the tournament, Morse knew his name to be Auden. Henry Auden.  _

_ Morse stepped up to take his shot, giving the officer launching the clay targets a nod before doing what he should have done half an hour ago. As soon as the target was in his sight, Morse shifted his aim almost imperceptibly to the right and fired.  _

_ He was successful at missing the target and the clay pigeon hit the ground, shattering from its own force. Morse was done.  _

_ Warlow caught his eye as the crowd applauded politely, frowning, clearly confused. Later, Morse would learn that Warlow had bet actual money on him winning.  _

_ Even Morse’s opponent, Auden, looked rather baffled, giving him an odd look before stepping up to take his own shot, hitting his target dead on.  _

_ But Auden missed his next one and eventually the trophy went to some officer called Gareth Lane. There was a large round of applause and Lane’s friends cheered for him. The Major General seemed amused, at least, by the whole affair, which Morse assumed Warlow’s superiors would deem an invariable success.  _

_ Morse made to step away and return to his post in the building just across the lawn when a hand touched his forearm lightly, stopping him.  _

_ It was Henry Auden, the man who Morse had gone up against and given second place to. There was a smaller, gaudy looking trophy in his other hand, evidence of his victory.  _

_ “I believe this is yours.” Auden said with a small smile, his brown eyes alight with humour.  _

_ “I don’t think so.” Morse shook his head and pulled his arm away.  _

_ “You threw that shot.” Auden said, and the surety in his voice kept Morse from leaving as abruptly as he wanted to. “Why?” _

_ Morse gave a tired sigh and crossed his arms in front of him, the sun from the past week having caused his freckles to stand out much more vividly against his pale skin. What did it matter to him that Morse threw his shot? “What makes you think there’s a reason? Maybe I just missed.” _

_ Auden shook his head, smiling. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does something without a reason, that’s all.” _

_ “Right. Because you know so much about me.” Morse scoffed, taking a step back. “I should be getting back to my station.” _

_ “Wait,” Auden held his free hand out, looking slightly awkward now. “I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot. I think. I’m Henry. Henry Auden.” _

_ Morse didn’t shake his hand, still a bit put off by the confrontation. “Auden. Like the poet.” _

_ “Morse. Like the code.” Auden countered with a small grin. “Know much about W.H. Auden?” _

_ “I’m more of an A.E. Housman man myself.” Morse replied. Now why had he gone and said that? _

_ Auden looked pleasantly surprised. “You know, I think we’re going to get on just fine.” _

_ Before Morse could even ask what that was supposed to mean, Auden was walking into the crowd and Warlow was making his way toward him, a clear question on his face.  _

\------

_ Present day _

It was far quieter outside, and even with the street not a handful of metres away it was more private than the crowded inside of the pub. Still, there seemed to be a small amount of traffic in the alley. Morse kicked aside a still smoking cigarette butt that had been freshly ground out on the pavement, looking around at the brick confines of the narrow space they found themselves in. A small car could certainly make its way down the alley if it chose, but there were the bins to contend with which might make such a task more tedious than it was worth. 

Henry shrugged his coat back on, pulling it tight around himself. It was then that Morse realized its familiarity. It was the same damn coat from Berlin. 

The coat was in good shape, well taken care of, mended in some small places, but no one would really guess it was nearly eight years old. It was thin, not too warm, but still not fit for summer. Auden seemed well off enough, the rest of his clothes were recognizably expensive to some degree, and the watch on his wrist was certainly something to go by. He kept the coat not out of necessity, but because he wanted to. 

Auden couldn’t even let his old coat go. Maybe he’d worn it in the hopes of Morse recognizing him by it. But Morse remembered him once saying he ran cold. He was always cold, everyone poked fun at him for it. 

“Declan Kane was found shot dead in his flat in London two nights ago.” Auden said solemnly, pulling Morse from his thoughts. He scratched his head and began pacing a bit, walking in worried circles as Morse stood watching, unable to do much else but listen. “I say ‘found’ but it was me, I found him. I’d sought him out only a few days before to speak to him about my concerns-”

“What concerns?” 

Auden stopped his pacing. “I think there’s a mole in- well, where I work. I only discovered them a few weeks ago, completely by accident. Wrong envelope on the wrong desk, that sort of thing. The thing is, based on the messages, one of the correspondents had to have some Signals experience. It wasn’t hard to decode, but- it was damned peculiar.” he shook his head, rubbing his temple. “It’s the same writer of the messages we found on John. They all began with the same five letters, ‘CILLY’, just like the ones that came across my desk, but they’re not part of the code. It’s a signature.”

“Or a joke.” Morse frowned, tugging at his ear. “Cillies were the predictable facets of Enigma, products of human error.”

“I’d wager it’s both,” Auden tucked his hands into his pockets. “But that’s not the point. It can’t be a coincidence, can it? Aside from the higher ups we handed the papers over to, the only other people who saw them were the members of our detachment.”

Morse bristled at that last comment. He knew an accusation when he saw one. “Henry, I didn’t even  _ know  _ about the signature until just now-”

“Well  _ someone  _ did.” Auden insisted. “I knew, after all. The six of us went into John’s room that night, I’d be surprised if someone else didn’t give the papers a shufti, notice the pattern. But that’s my problem. I don’t think a passing glance is enough to make someone pick up the signature. I think I was wrong, Morse. It wasn’t John, it was someone else. Someone set him up and I- I fell for it. I was wrong.”

In all honesty, Morse wasn’t sure how to react to that. For so long he had wanted to hear Auden admit that, admit that he’d make a mistake that cost a man- their  _ friend-  _ his life, but as the weeks turned to months and those into years, the drive had dissipated. He felt it return as they spoke inside the pub, but it had dwindled again. There was no happiness to be found. It wouldn’t bring John back. It wouldn’t change anything. It didn’t even feel remotely satisfying in the cathartic manner Morse once expected it to. 

Auden being wrong meant Morse was right, but that in turn meant that the spy everyone thought died in Berlin came back with them to England. 

“I started looking into it,” Auden continued. “I started gathering evidence, and I shared what I found with the few people I thought would understand. Adam Lomas, Declan Kane, and Mikhail Bulgakov. They were the only ones in London. Easy enough to find. I went to meet Kane a second time and found him dead. Mikhail’s flat had been turned over, same as Adam’s. The papers I gave them were gone. Someone must have known what I was doing- what I gave them. That’s when I left. I left to find  _ you.  _ I’ve been in Oxford for a day, trying to track you down to tell you- to warn you-”

Morse felt his throat go dry and he struggled to swallow. “The spy is going after everyone you’re talking to.”

_ And you’re talking to me right now.  _

Auden nodded carefully. “That’s my reading of it, yes. I know Adam’s safe, he’s in Glasgow, I phoned him yesterday. And Soren Doyle is in Oxford too, he works with the maths department at Lovelace College, has a place in Summertown. All the suspects are accounted for.”

_ Suspects?  _ Morse frowned, holding a hand out in front of him to settle any further words Auden might add before he could speak. “What about Mikhail? Bulgakov? You said he-”

“There isn’t any body yet but-”

“Henry, isn’t it possible that he killed Kane and is on the run?”

“It’s a good theory, but-” Auden sighed and shook his head. “I can’t imagine Mikhail would do that.”

“But you can imagine Doyle, Lomas, or myself doing it.” Morse grit his teeth, taking a step back from Auden. “Killing Kane.”

“Morse-”

“Am I supposed to believe all of this?” Morse scoffed, throwing his hands up and taking another step back, his shoulders hitting the brick wall of the alley, but thankfully Auden didn’t make any effort to close the space between them. “For all I know, you’re lying. For all I know, it could be  _ you.  _ You said it yourself, you knew about the cilly. Maybe John was a loose end for you. Maybe that’s what I am.”

“Listen-”

“Did you come here to kill me, Auden?” Morse could feel his hands shaking but he kept his voice firm, his pulse quickening as he stared him down. It sounded like a baseless accusation, but there were parts of it that could make sense. There was no trust on either side.  _ No trust.  _ “Is that what this is?”

“A pub full of policemen saw you walk out with me, Morse.” Auden held his hands out placatingly. “I’m not a fool.”

“You’d find a way to run.” Morse replied deftly. 

“I might.” Auden shrugged, but it was more of a defeated slump. He sighed and let himself fall back against the opposite wall of the alley, looking far too tired. “I don’t think you did it, Morse. Of course I don’t.”

Morse felt a small stab of guilt in his chest but made no move to recant his accusation. He let the sharp barb remain caught on Henry’s skin, the last Morse would fling his way. It had felt good to try and hurt him with his words, the only weapon he had ever really been good at honing his skill with, the one he knew would actually pierce Auden’s thick skin. 

He was bitter, angry at Auden’s intrusion into his life, angry for past wrongs that had no possible way of being righted. And he was angry that Auden wasn’t fighting back. 

Then, he was angry at himself for feeling any of that. 

In his mind, he’d made Auden up to be something much more malicious than he actually was. At the end of the day, Henry wasn’t a monster, he wasn’t a killer, and he wasn’t a traitor. He was a good man who made the wrong mistakes. Henry knew he was wrong now, he’d said just as much. 

Morse didn’t have to forgive him, but maybe he could at least stop punishing him for it. 

“I suppose I held out some mistaken idea that you’d believe me.” Henry looked at the ground, shaking his head. “I didn’t make John’s mistake, I made copies, of course, but you were so hard to find- I couldn’t bloody well carry it around all day-”

“Copies of what?”

“The papers!” Auden said like it was obvious, wringing his hands and pacing again, his eyes darting toward both open ends of the alley. “I have copies of the messages from the spy, my own investigation, and John’s papers, among other things. Evidence. Once I figure out whoever it is, it’ll be enough to bring them down, so long as-”

He broke off, going still as he stared down the alleyway to the street, his face paling considerably. Morse followed his gaze and spotted the front of a grey car just barely poking into view, one he was sure wasn’t there moments before. 

Auden looked as if it was some terrible spectre coming to haunt him, backing away toward the other end of the alley. “Listen, I need to be back in London tomorrow to follow up a lead. We’ll meet back here Tuesday, alright? Noon. You’ll find me in the same spot. I- I have to go.”

“Henry, who-” Morse began, watching the car steadily creeping back out of view, as if the occupant knew they were spotted. He turned to Auden who was nearly at the other end of the alley, seeming like he was ready to run at any second. “Look, you don’t have to go, I’m with the police, I can  _ help-” _

But Henry only shook his head. “I’m not losing anyone else. No one else is dying because of me. We need to do this  _ right.  _ I’ll see you in two days, Morse.”

“Two days.” Morse repeated, and it sounded like a promise. 

Auden gave him one last smile before he turned on his heel and ran, disappearing around the corner, vanishing from sight. 

\------

Morse was still staring after Henry when the door behind him opened and Gael stepped out into the alley.

He let the door fall shut behind him with a small creak as he sought out Morse’s shoulder, touching it gently to draw his attention. The physical contact was enough to jolt him from his trance and Morse turned, trying not to look as rattled as he felt. 

“Everything’s fine, Gael.” Morse answered the unspoken question, recognizing the way it danced across Gael’s worried eyes.  _ Everything’s fine.  _ Was it Gael who needed to hear that or was it Morse?

Gael looked dubious, lips parted by unspoken words before he pressed them shut, deciding against whatever he was going to say, and he took Morse’s hand instead. It was only then that Morse realized it- _ he- _ was trembling, shaking ever so slightly. 

It was too much to take in too fast and his mind was racing as he struggled to sort through the slight incoherence of Henry’s ramblings, half wanting to believe him, half wanting to think all of it was a ruse, a lie. It just couldn’t be real. 

All of that was supposed to be  _ over.  _ Morse left it all behind in Berlin. 

But apparently it hadn’t been ready to let  _ him  _ go. 

_ ‘You  _ are  _ next. Any one of us I think.’ _

_ ‘Declan and Mikhail are dead, Morse.’ _

_ Morse could still see John Warlow sprawled on the floor, unconscious as he lay among the papers that incriminated him, the ones that cost him his life. Someone was shouting, fighting to get into the room, and Morse soon realized that it was him. It was his own shouts, his own hands digging into Adam’s arms as Henry tried to stop him, Doyle was rushing down the hall, and John wasn’t moving- _

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sagging as he leaned into Gael, finding comfort in the solidness of his presence. Wordlessly, Gael wrapped his arms around Morse, letting out a deep breath that stirred the hair above Morse’s ear as he held him close, and Morse wished that the protective embrace would be enough to keep the ghosts of his past at bay for just a bit longer. 

“That wasn’t just an old friend coming to say hello, was it?” Gael asked lightly, his tone lacking any sort of edge, not compelling Morse to respond, only hoping that perhaps he would. “Whatever it is, Morse, you can tell me.”

_ But would you want to hear it? _

“I know,” Morse nodded, pulling away and attempting to compose himself, trying to put Auden and his troubles on the periphery of his thoughts, at least until he was in a position to even do something about them. “I know. Not now, though.”

Gael nodded, understanding, and ran a hand down Morse’s arm comfortingly. “Alright. So long as you’re okay.”

“You know me.” Morse said with a small grin that only felt half convincing. 

Gael gave him an exasperated smile in turn. “How many times are you going to say that before you realize it’s not as reassuring as you think it is?”

A laugh tore itself loose from Morse’s chest and Gael’s smile widened. It was enough to make everything feel fine again, and Morse felt like the pressure around him seemed to lift, a weight slipping from his shoulders. 

Even after all these months of living together, Morse still wasn’t wholly accustomed to the constant nature of Gael’s reassurance. He was a fixed point, a touchstone, and Morse didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it. Maybe he didn’t. But for now, that didn’t matter. He needed that comfort, that constance. Because it wasn’t over with Auden. Something was going to happen, and Morse dreaded to think what trouble the man had brought to his doorstep. 

But Auden was gone for now. Two days. Two days of peace. 

“Come on, then,” Gael said, pressing a quick kiss to Morse’s brow. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: title tbd
> 
> Well this chapter was fun to write because I finally got to put some of my historical research to use. Major General Wheatley did visit BAOR regiments yearly (?) and I'm using information from the 1959 visit to the 13th and 16th Signals Regiments for this and the next flashback. The Mercury Barracks at Birgelen were real and the regiments did host rifle tournaments among other things (I made up my own rules because I wasn't about to spend an inordinate amount of time researching rifling etiquette).   
> I hate that I made John Warlow so likeable because we all know he dies and it's just...sad.   
> Anyway, prepare for tooth-rotting Gael/Morse fluff next chapter and probably another flashback because I gotta get that exposition in


	4. The Yellow House

_June 27, 1960_

_Morse was almost half asleep by the time someone woke him by shining a torch in his eyes._

_The summer heat made it increasingly difficult to sleep at night as the occasional night breeze that drifted through the wide open window did nothing to combat the ever persistent stickiness of humidity that glued his limbs together and painted persistent lines of sweat across his brow. Most nights, Morse just had to wait until sheer exhaustion outweighed the constant nag of the humidity and forced him into unconsciousness, but even that was difficult with Barrow’s constant thunderous snoring from the next bunk over._

_He so desperately wanted to go to sleep, but the light just wouldn’t let him._

_It had been a long day already, and aside from the formalities that came with the Major General’s visit, he still had his own work to complete. The clacking keys of the teleprinter always resonated in his ears in the rare scraps of quiet in the night and made it difficult to fall asleep even at the best of times._

_Morse started to realize that in all likelihood it was Barrow who was trying to wake him, hoping to wake him and Doyle up to get them to join him and his friends in sneaking out to the bar in the mess hall and get plastered in the middle of the night. It was a miracle that Barrow and his crew had never gotten caught yet, but Morse had never joined in on the drunken escapades and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. For some reason, Barrow still couldn’t understand that Morse didn’t drink. It was like the man was incapable of processing the word ‘no’._

_But as Morse slowly gained his bearings, he realized that he could hear Barrow still snoring soundly, so who was it? Surely Doyle wouldn’t-_

_The torch beam didn’t go away and Morse squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness of the light, disentangling his arms from his sheets to hold up his hands and ward it off to no avail._

_“At least you’re up quicker than Doyle,” a slightly exasperated voice hissed above him, and Morse nearly knocked his head against the upper bunk and he scrambled into a sitting position, eyes wide open as he tried to make out the face of the intruder through the bright glare of the light. “Come on, Morse, get dressed, would you?”_

_Morse blinked the spots from his eyes, sleepily registering the familiar voice. “Warlow?”_

_“No, it’s your nan.” Warlow said dryly. “Yes, it’s me, now come on, get moving.”_

_Morse fumbled for his wristwatch that he kept under his pillow to muffle the ticking and used the torch light to check the time, squinting at the thin hands on the watch face. It was just barely gone two in the morning and the sky beyond the window was pitch black, no rosy traces of dawn anywhere to be seen, nor would he expect there to be for hours yet. What on earth was Warlow doing in his room this late at night?_

_“What’s going on?” Morse asked, confused as he kicked his sheets aside and carefully got out of the lower bunk so as not to knock his head against the edge of the one above him like he did so many times during his first week. Any attempt at modesty was forgotten and replaced by urgency even as he stood in front of the lieutenant in nothing more than his pants and vest. “Why are you here?”_

_He couldn’t quite tell but he was sure Warlow was smiling. “Oh, I just fancied seeing how funny it would be to watch Doyle try and get his trousers on in the dark.” As if on cue, they heard a small ‘thud’ not too far away and Morse could barely make out Soren Doyle stumbling into a wall as he tripped over his shoes while fastening his belt. “Do you think Barrow is still asleep?”_

_Morse listened to the other man’s snoring, far too genuine to be faked. No surprise there. Barrow slept like the dead, even when he was sober. “Yes.”_

_“Good,” Warlow said quietly, and he tossed Morse his trousers, standing to the side and giving his as much space to get changed as he could in the relatively small quarters. “I’ve just finished telling Doyle, but you two have been selected for a special detachment, due to leave immediately. It’s a few men from our regiment and likely some blokes from the Sixteenth after Wheatley makes his way over there later in the day.”_

_“Wheatley?” Morse tugged his trousers on, careful not to make the same mistake as Doyle. The mention of the general was only puzzling for a moment before realization dawned on him. “This wasn’t just a ceremonial visit. He was scouting.”_

_“Well done, Morse,” Warlow’s smile was barely visible in the darkness but Morse could hear it in his voice. “How quietly do you think you can pack?”_

_Pack. They weren’t to be given any choice on the matter. Of course not, Morse thought somewhat irritably. Orders were orders._

_For someone who had as much irritability with authority as he did, Morse wasn’t quite sure why he chose the army of all places to join. Some masochistic form of penance upon himself, possibly. He had yet to figure that one out._

_“Morse?”_

_Morse cast a glance at his desk space and the meager possessions he had on it. A few books, writing utensils, papers, and identification. Other than those and his clothes and toiletries, he didn’t have much. “A few minutes at most.”_

_The clap on his shoulder was even more of a surprise because Morse could hardly see it coming and he almost jumped at the contact. “Be in the hall in five.”_

_All the cloak and dagger business was beginning to fray Morse’s nerves, but he had enough respect for John not to drive him mad with questions that would likely be answered in the near future. Quietly, Morse dressed and packed, casting a few glances at an equally confused Doyle who simply gave Morse a shrug and continued haphazardly stuffing his notebooks into his identical issued rucksack._

_It was the kind of impulsivity that left Morse with an odd sense of deja vu as he remembered the night he left Oxford, shoving his few possessions into a battered old trunk as he took the bus to the army recruiting office to be shipped off to Germany. He should have at least tried to finish out Michaelmas term, tried to ignore the piercing ache in his chest, but the wound just wouldn’t heal. He was sent down, and suddenly the city didn’t seem habitable anymore. The severing of the battered remains of his soul from Oxford was done with a rusty blade and it had taken nearly a month before his test results for ciphers and cryptology had resulted in him receiving a letter in the mail that contained a date, time, and location. But, more importantly, it was a way out._

_Being stationed in Birgelen wasn’t all that bad. It was close enough to the border with the Netherlands that when he was given leave over Christmas he didn’t return home- wherever that was meant to be. Instead, he made his way to Amsterdam and spent what few days he could afford there. He visited the Rijksmuseum and let time slip by walking along the snowy bridges and canals, still feeling as displaced and alone as ever. At least he’d seen some good art._

_While packing his things in the middle of the night to be shipped off to some detachment was hardly convenient, Morse wasn’t comfortable enough to put up any sort of fight about it. Maybe it was just meant to be. Maybe he would find his solace there, wherever it was._

_Only one way to find out._

_After five minutes, the two of them went to join Warlow in the hall, and Morse tried not to fret with his hair too much. They must have looked like they were just dragged out of bed- which they were, and it was even more clear in the well lit space of the hallway._

_Warlow gave them both a once over before he nodded some vague approval and led the way toward the stairs and out of the building._

_Morse tried to catch up with Warlow’s longer strides, looking up at the taller man as they crossed the grounds toward the administrative building._

_“What is this all about?” Morse hissed at the lieutenant, glancing back at Doyle who seemed more preoccupied with the stars above than the two men ahead of him. “What’s with all the secrecy?”_

_“Two questions, two different answers, Morse.” Warlow said with a wry smile, folding his arms behind his back. “Major General Wheatley showed interest in those who excelled at transcribing Morse code on the teleprinter and he indicated this to Lieutenant Colonel Jordan. Naturally, your name came up.”_

_“Naturally.” Morse repeated, half surprised._

_Warlow shrugged one shoulder. “Apparently the BAOR has been looking to place a detachment in Berlin for quite some time, but ever since that troubling end to the Stopwatch tunnel project in ‘56 they figured the Reds would be keeping a close eye on our side of the city. Took them a while to come up with this plan, and they’ll be damned if it doesn’t go through now, especially with the Soviets pulling out of the Paris Summit in May after that U2 cock up by the Americans. We need eyes and ears in Berlin. Better than that, we need cipher clerks.” he sighed and glanced at his watch, shining his torch over it to see the time. “If we place our operation early in the morning with the cover of darkness it should go without detection. Shouldn’t take too long once we get to the airfield.”_

_“What operation, sir?” Doyle jumped in. Morse looked back at him again. He’d been listening._

_“Intercepting encrypted messages coming out of East Berlin,” Warlow said like it was the simplest thing in the world. “There will be another BAOR detachment close to the border all set up with kit to send the messages they catch to our detachment. The proximity should make it easier for action to take place, rather than waiting for messages to go back and forth from London and Washington. We’ll be setting up shop in Tiergarten, less than a ten minute walk from the Russian sector. It’s a nice flat they managed to get. A bit too yellow for my tastes but beggars can’t and all that.”_

_“You’re coming with us?” Morse asked with some relief, already knowing what the answer would be, just needing to clarify it._

_Warlow nodded. “I’ll be overseeing our little unit. You, Doyle, and two more from our regiment, not counting whoever joins us from the Sixteenth tomorrow.”_

_“Who are the two others?”_

_“Lieutenant Harding is bringing them along now.” Warlow pointed to three dark forms coming from the other residence building to join them under a flickering lamp post on the path. Within moments they were visible, and Morse could do little but stare._

_One of the men was Harding, clearly, but Morse’s focus was on the other two cipher clerks he brought along with him. The first man was thin, but lean, dark hair combed neatly back, intelligent light green eyes glittering from his relatively paler features. He held himself well, confident, but not brazenly so. There appeared to be a touch of amusement in his expression, like he found this whole scheme to be a somewhat entertaining puzzle that he was interested in solving. He caught Morse’s eye and nodded with a smile that seemed to suggest they were old friends, despite this being their first meeting. There was something compelling about him, though, and Morse found it almost difficult to look away._

_But he did, and he saw the second man. Someone he’d had the pleasure of meeting earlier in the day._

_Well, at least that explained something._

_“E. Morse and Soren Doyle, meet Adam Lomas and Henry Auden.”_

\------

_Present day_

Morse couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face when he fit the key into the lock on the front door of their new flat, hearing the tumblers turn as he and Gael had every time they’d gone in to bring in boxes or furniture or plan projects to take on in the future during days off they didn’t have yet. 

But this time they wouldn’t have to leave and come back another time. 

No, this time, they would stay. It was their home now. 

_Theirs._

“Go on, then.” Gael grinned, nudging his shoulder, and Morse gave him a half exasperated, half fond look before finally opening the door and entering the flat, letting Gael close the door behind them as he aimlessly walked down the hall toward the large kitchen and dining room space where they’d unceremoniously stacked all of their boxes. 

It was the pale coloured walls that seemed to make the room lighter, larger, almost, less oppressed by richer colours or vibrant wallpaper. A white that wasn’t quite septic, just...clean. Clean and comforting. Not the just-barely-peeling wallpaper and cheap muted tones like all of his previous flats. 

The window panes were painted a pale brown, like tea with too much milk in it, but it seemed to accent the space nicely, very nearly matching the scuffed, unfinished wood floors beneath his feet that made up the entire flooring of the flat- save for the upstairs bathroom and a square area of tiled space in the kitchen area with the adjoining utility room where the washer and dryer were relegated. Well, 'room' in the sense that it was a small, closet sized space that someone had just stuck the appliances in instead of fitting them in the kitchen. Morse couldn’t remember living anywhere in Oxford where he hadn’t needed to take his clothes to the laundromat so that convenience had certainly been appealing when they looked at the flat. 

Gael had definitely gotten some work done earlier when he stopped by to start finishing things. There were curtains on the window above the sink and the dining table had a vase of bright flowers on it, a spark of beauty among the small mess of cardboard boxes. 

All the facilities seemed to work just fine and there were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, but one of the bedrooms was decided to be a combination between a spare and miscellaneous storage space, should the need ever arise. 

The one problem was the living room just next over near the front door. The previous owners of the flat had done a rather poor job of trying to brighten up the room by painting the walls an eggy sort of yellow that was less than pleasing to look at. Gael had made the most horrified face when he saw the colour that Morse almost laughed just thinking about it. Unfortunately, those walls would have to wait until the next weekend when both of them managed to wrangle an overlapping day off work to paint over them. 

Well, the first step was actually _getting the paint._

The photo Morse kept of himself and his mother had always been just propped up on any shelf or surface he deemed fit now had a frame to go in, and it sat prominently atop the mantle of the fireplace alongside a picture that Miss Frazil had taken of Morse and Gael working on a crossword together at the pub over lunch and the small family photo of Joyce, Philip, and Marilyn that Morse received in the post not a few days ago. 

Picture frames on the mantle. It used to seem like such a foreign thing to him, something he would never be privy to. How strange it was to settle into a house and expand beyond the small confines of his past. It almost felt surreal, how drastically his life had changed over the course of just little more than a year. 

“I also managed to get some groceries while I was out earlier,” Gael was saying behind him as he followed Morse, joy apparent in his voice. “And then upstairs-”

Gael didn’t get to finish because Morse had turned around to kiss him rather soundly, throwing his arms over the shoulders of his taller partner, all coherent thoughts thrown out of the window as Gael smiled against his lips, trying not to laugh as he deepened the kiss.

“Well if this is your reaction to seeing the kitchen I can’t wait to show you the upstairs.” Gael chuckled near Morse’s ear, placing a kiss against his temple as he untangled Morse’s arms and took his hands in his own. “We have a home, Morse.”

“I can see that,” Morse laughed and let Gael wrap his arms around him. “A bit messy, though. Could do with some unpacking.”

“Says the one with two boxes of records.”

“Half of those records are _yours!”_ Morse said with some indignity. 

Gael held his hands up with a grin. “Guilty. But the good news is that there’s plenty of space for _our_ records in _our_ living room in _our_ flat-”

 _“Gael,”_ Morse shook his head, trying not to smile. “You’ve made your point.”

As much as he was pretending to be exasperated, he could fully understand Gael’s elation, and his face was beginning to get a bit sore from containing a smile he knew would nearly split his face open. It was so unbelievable that Morse almost couldn’t let himself get too happy about it.

Almost.

“Fantastic,” Gael gave him a quick kiss, positively beaming as he turned back toward the small array of boxes. “Let’s say we get these where they belong and we’ll see if I can make dinner without burning something.”

Morse scoffed. “You’ve never burned anything.”

“Tea towel,” Gael pointed out. “January.”

“That-” _That was because I was still recovering from two gunshot wounds and fell over in your flat while trying to stand._ But he didn’t say it. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the atmosphere and cause the smile on Gael’s face to falter. 

Pushing the unpleasant memories of the Mercer shooting aside, Morse nudged a box with his foot- probably clothes, judging by the density. “Better hope there’s no tea towels in here then.” he said with a teasing grin. “And if we don’t start unpacking you’ll never get around to burning them.”

“Oh, you- I brought this upon myself, didn’t I?” Gael mock groaned, stooping to lift a box. 

Morse raised an eyebrow. “Regretting keeping me around?”

“Not in the slightest,” Gael assured him with such beautiful sincerity and Morse smiled, feeling a pleasant warmth in his chest that only Gael really ever managed to kindle. 

He grabbed a box of records and began to unpack into their new home. 

\------

The sun set only a few hours later but they managed to get everything sorted away in that amount of time. It would have been quicker had they not ended up snogging in practically every room- a formidable but certainly not unwelcome distraction. Gael’s borderline ecstatic energy was contagious and every time Morse heard him singing one of those pop songs he listened to he just had to smile. 

Morse couldn’t remember the last time he was as comfortable around anyone as he was with Gael, and Gael seemed equally, if not more, comfortable around him, no barriers, no half truths, just completely genuine. Gael provided a stability, a constance, that Morse had never been able to rely on anyone for- at least not for very long. 

He hadn’t even dated Susan anywhere close to this length of time before they were engaged. Before everything fell apart. 

That wary part of his mind wanted to affix a timer to it all, wondering just when _this_ would end. It was too good to continue. That had never happened before. While Morse couldn’t imagine Gael leaving, it was too much to expect him to stay around forever. That simply just didn’t happen in Morse’s life. 

But when the sounds of guitar came from the battered turntable downstairs, replacing Morse’s Wagner, he didn’t try and hide his smile, shaking his head as he went down to see Gael performing some odd parody of a dance as he tried to put dishes away at the same time, a towel half tucked into his waistband to dry the dishes with. His feet were bare against the tiles, trouser cuffs rolled up, and miraculously he seemed in no danger of tripping over himself. Each task effectively hindered the other and it made for a sight so ridiculous that Morse had to laugh. 

“What are you doing?” Morse walked into the kitchen and peeked at the LP cover that lay on the dining table, recognizing the record as one he got Gael for his birthday. The song, if he guessed correctly, was _‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’_ by the Rolling Stones- just ‘The Stones’, coming from Gael. 

“Wagner was just about to end and it was my turn to pick the music!” Gael put the last of the glasses away and held his hands out to Morse invitingly, his eyes gleaming as he smiled. “Dance with me?”

Morse snorted, gravitating toward Gael against his better judgement. There was just no resisting the brightness in his face, his smile glowing stronger than any of the lights in the room. “You know I can’t dance.”

“Neither can I,” Gael smiled and took Morse’s hands, gently swaying his arms completely out of sync with the fast paced song. “But that’s what makes it fun. Here, try this-”

It was hard to take Gael seriously when he was trying to teach Morse to ‘dance’, purely because there was absolutely nothing coordinated about it in the slightest. There was no keeping track of the odd movements of his arms and feet and as Gael started to laugh, Morse realized that he wasn’t _supposed_ to keep track, he was just supposed to _move._ It didn’t make sense because it wasn’t meant to. It was awkward and clumsy and- and somehow utterly perfect. 

Of course the phone had to ring just then. 

Morse turned toward the source of the sound, seeking out the blue porcelain telephone on the stand in the hall behind them, trying not to feel too disappointed. Still, if it was the station or hospital, it would be better to answer than ignore it.

“I’ll get it,” Morse sighed, and Gael took the needle off the vinyl, the music coming to a halt as Morse went to pick up the phone. “Morse.”

 _“I was worried you might’ve given me the wrong number deliberately, I rang somewhere else first before realizing I’d done a nine instead of a four,”_ a familiar and all too amused voice said from the other end. _“How are you two settling into the new flat, then?”_

“Good evening, Miss Frazil,” Morse rubbed his forehead and smiled, quite used to the runaway train way her conversations tended to begin. She just jumped right into them without much preamble, and it was somewhat liberating, if he had to be honest. “It’s going rather well, Gael’s just-” he craned his neck behind him to see Gael sorting through a stack of books they’d moved onto the dining table after dinner. “Unpacking some books.”

 _“No shortage of those, I imagine,”_ Frazil said with a kindly teasing tone. 

“No, I suppose not.” Morse agreed, turning back to the phone. Out of nowhere, a thought struck him. “Listen, while I’ve got you, I was wondering- could I ask a favour?”

There was a pause, then, the clinking of ice in a glass as Frazil drank whatever she had with her. _“This doesn’t have anything to do with the flat, does it.”_

“No.” Morse shook his head even thought she couldn’t see it.

_“A case, then?”_

“No, it…” Morse wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “It’s personal.”

There was another pause, and Morse heard the sound of a door shutting in the near distance. Frazil was likely still in her office with a few others getting ready for the morning edition. A slight jostling, then the phone was taken up again. _“I’m all ears, then.”_

Morse leaned his shoulder against the wall, shielding the phone with his body as he glanced back at Gael to make sure he was an adequate distance away, hearing him messing with the washing machine in the utility 'room' through the kitchen. Still, he lowered his voice, closing his eyes and steeling himself, hoping he wouldn’t regret this. “I need you to check with some of your colleagues in London, see if there’s been an obituary printed for a man called Declan Kane. He-” Morse exhaled heavily. “He was an old friend of mine.”

It was a good chance to try and verify Auden’s story and make sure he was telling the truth. Morse wanted to believe him, but there was still that part of him that was hesitant to. Morse still had over a day before he was due to meet with Auden again, and he would be damned if he didn’t go prepared with at least some of the facts. Morse was never much of a fan of the cloak and dagger business. 

_“Cain?”_ Frazil asked. _“As in Abel and?”_

“K-A-N-E.” Morse spelled out. “Declan.”

 _“What should I be expecting to find other than his obituary?”_ Morse could practically picture her leaning against her desk, pen poised over her pad, eyebrow raised like she did whenever she got a tip or lead on a story.

“He may have been murdered.”

 _“Christ, Morse,”_ Frazil drew in a breath. _“Isn’t this something for your lot, then? You ought to give Scotland Yard a ring, see what they have.”_

“I’d rather it didn’t come to that just yet,” Morse said. “If you can find anything on him, anything at all- Kane and another man- Mikhail Bulgakov. Just like the author.”

He knew it was a false name, but it was the only one the man ever gave them aside from his British alias. Morse doubted he’d choose to use it now. He didn’t back then. He’d always been Bulgakov.

 _“Morse, I pride myself on many things but I doubt there’s many in Oxford who can claim to be as well read as you.”_ Frazil said with a touch of exasperation.

Morse got the hint and spelled Bulgakov’s name out for her as well.

 _“Luckily for you, I may have a friend or two left in the Yard from my days printing down there in the Smoke.”_ Frazil sounded pleasantly smug. _“It’ll have to keep until morning though. I’ll ring you at the station tomorrow, tell you what I’ve dug up.”_

Morse felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest, easing the passage of air into his lungs. “Thank you, Miss Frazil. Truly.”

 _“Of course,”_ she replied, and Morse thought he could hear her smile in her voice. _“I don’t need to be worried about you, do I?”_

“Not yet, I don’t think.”

 _“Well you sure know how to instill confidence in a lady,”_ Frazil quipped. _“Give Gael my love, I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night, Morse.”_

“Good night, Miss Frazil.”

The line clicked and went silent and Morse hung the phone back up on the base, but no sooner had he set it down it rang once again and he quickly picked it back up, pressing it to his ear.

“Miss Frazil-?” Morse started, frowning. Surely she couldn’t have called back that fast-

 _“Is that you, Morse?”_ a man’s voice cut him off somewhat urgently.

Morse felt his throat go dry and he leaned more heavily against the wall. “Henry?”

_How did he get this number? Did he know where Morse lived now?_

_“You never told me why you threw that shot.”_ Henry Auden said from the other end, his voice slightly strained and hoarse, but still recognizable as his own. 

The memory of the shooting game from all those years ago, the first day they met, was suddenly clear in Morse’s mind. Morse had thrown the shot and let Auden win. But what did that have to do with anything? 

“I don’t understand.” Morse said plainly, frowning. “That was years ago, Henry.” 

_“I think I know now.”_ Auden continued, and Morse thought he could detect a touch of delirium in his voice. It was more than likely that Henry had gotten himself drunk and this call was nothing more than nonsense, but something about it unsettled him and kept Morse on the line, listening to his words. _“You hate playing other peoples’ games, don’t you? You always have. I’m sick of it too. I’m sick and tired. Tired. I’m so tired.”_

“Henry, what’s going on?” Morse asked, concern prickling in his chest. Something wasn’t right about this. 

_“I had it all wrong, Morse, I was such a fool-”_

“Henry-”

 _“You have to find him. You have to stop him.”_ Henry’s speech was calmer now, more contained, and Morse heard him take a deep breath, but it was shaky. _“I just want you to know.”_ he said with a tone of fierce determination tinged with something softer, something kinder. _“You were right. Right from the beginning.”_

Auden had already said that earlier, why was he repeating himself now?

_“You. It’s always been you. Remember, all right?”_

“What’s happening, Henry?” Morse demanded, clutching the phone tight, his knuckles going white as bone. “Are you all right?”

 _“I-”_ there was a sharp intake of breath. _“Oh, I knew it. It had to be.”_

“What-”

 _“Remember our meeting place.”_ Henry said firmly, his voice growing distant. _“Auf wiedersehen.”_

Before Morse could get anything else in, the line went dead. 

Henry Auden was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Libation and Sacrifice


	5. Libation and Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a graphic depiction of violence, it’s not too bad but just in case

Morse woke the next morning to a soft kiss being placed upon his bare shoulder. A sleep addled smile snuck across his face as he turned over to see Gael propping himself up by an elbow and smiling back down at him, his dark hair a mess of waves across his forehead. His arm that had been draped across Morse’s side now lay flat across his chest, idle fingers tracing his collarbones in a soothing sort of ministration. 

“‘Morning.” Morse murmured into the proper kiss he received, reaching up to twine his fingers through the hair that curled at Gael’s nape, bringing him down closer to deepen it. 

“Good morning to you too,” Gael laughed pleasantly, sneaking a third kiss to the side of Morse’s neck before reaching over him to grab the clock on the nightstand. “Early day for you, you’ve still got ten minutes until your alarm.” 

Morse groaned and looked over at the clock to see for himself, finding that he had indeed woken earlier than he needed to. It was nothing short of a miracle considering how comfortably he’d slept through the night with Gael’s arms around him and the softness of the brand new, sage green sheets that he was sure he wouldn’t stop appreciating anytime soon. Especially now that the soreness of his muscles from the event yesterday was setting in once again. 

“Lucky me,” he scoffed lightly, leaning up to steal another kiss, slow and languid like they had all the time in the world. But they didn’t. There were only ten minutes before it was a mess of trying to discern one’s strewn shirts from another and finding Gael’s shoes which invariably were never where he claimed he’d left them. 

“Is that so?” Gael smiled warmly against his lips, and Morse opened his eyes to see Gael’s sparkling at him, twin seas of blue waves stilled by the lack of morning tide. He caught Morse staring and arched an eyebrow teasingly. “Enjoying the view, are you?”

“Mhm. Something like that.” Morse hummed contentedly and let his head fall back to the pillows, simply studying the angles and features of Gael’s face, committing them to memory before the long day ahead had them separated for hours on end. It was far too warm for Gael to be half laying atop him like he was, especially since they’d had to turn the fans off in exchange for throwing open a window to save electricity, but Morse decided that when Gael kissed him again that- late July heat be damned- he wouldn’t have it any other way. “When are you due in?”

“Nine, ideally, if I’d like to adhere to the schedule and keep my job,” Gael sighed dramatically and Morse chuckled as he rolled his eyes. “All I have to look forward to this morning are breakfast rounds in the ward, then lunch rounds, then an afternoon in the pediatric wards and I can only pray the world doesn’t end in the moments between.”

“How do your administrators feel about faked sick days? Or calling in late?”

Gael quirked an eyebrow upward, lips curling into a humourous smile. “Why do you ask?”

“First morning in the new flat, we could have a bit of a lie in,” Morse suggested, punctuating it with a kiss to the corner of that smile. “It could be nice.”

“Morse, I don’t believe you’ve ever had a ‘lie in’ in your entire adult life.” 

“Is it a bad time to start?” The phone rang downstairs and Morse groaned, turning his head sideways to half bury it into the pillow. After the events of last night that he had largely refrained from telling Gael about he was seriously regretting having the phone even hooked up at all. “Please, let it be a solicitor.”

Naturally, he wouldn’t be that lucky.

_ It’s probably Henry again.  _ Morse started to think, but the guess didn’t feel right. There had been an odd finality to Auden’s words last night. It would have been surprising for him to call back so soon. 

“At this hour?” Gael chuckled, pressing his lips to Morse’s cheek with one last kiss. “First one to answer it doesn’t have to take the bins out at the end of the week.”

“Gael, how am I meant to win that, you’re lying on top of me!”

“Not anymore, I’m not!” the sheets shifted as Gael rolled off the younger man with ease and sprung to his feet, grinning. “Never said you were going to win, did I?”

“Oh, you-” Morse started with a laugh, but it cost him precious time as Gael raced from the room and he quickly stumbled after him, hand dragging along the railing of the stairs as he rushed down to reach the phone. 

Swinging around the end of the railing to come into the front hall he just caught sight of Gael seizing the telephone and raising the entire thing above his head as Morse struggled to reach it, both of them laughing far too much. Gael turned away to bring the phone down against his chest and spun back around once he answered it, holding the receiver up to his ear. “Morse and Edwards residence, the taller one speaking.”

Morse tried to playfully swat him but Gael dodged away, stifling a laugh as he listened to the speaker on the other end. 

“All right, yes. No, don’t worry, he’s right here-” Gael grinned and held the phone out to Morse. “It’s Fred.”

Morse blinked, mouth slightly agape in confusion. Surely he meant Inspector Thursday. “Since when is he  _ Fred?”  _

“Well someone had to give me the old ‘don’t mess Morse about or they’ll never find your body’ fatherly talk once it got out that we were seeing each other.” Gael raised an eyebrow like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Needless to say, I think it went well. Hence Fred.”

“Hence Fred,” Morse repeated in disbelief, shaking himself out of his stupor enough to take the phone from Gael. “Did he really threaten your life?”

Gael answered with a grin and placed a peck on his forehead, ruffling his hair a bit. “I’ll start breakfast.”

Morse only had a brief moment to recover before he pressed the phone to his ear, clearing his throat. “Sir?”

_ “Morning, Morse,”  _ Thursday’s low voice came from the other end, laced with rare humour.  _ “And I wouldn’t exactly say threatened, more like cautioned in a very well meaning sort of way. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be getting the car this morning, thought it might be good to stretch my legs.” _

“Oh,” Morse tried not to sound too surprised, but it wasn’t often that Thursday deviated from their routine. “Alright, then. Same time as usual?”

_ “I won’t be a minute later,”  _ Thursday said rather cheerily.  _ “See you then.” _

Morse suspected there was something else going on other than some random desire to get a bit of morning exercise in, but he decided to let it rest for the time being, granting Thursday this sudden oddity of his. 

“Alright, sir. See you then.” Morse hung the phone up and rubbed his eyes, returning upstairs to put some actual clothes on before making his way into the kitchen, deciding that maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea to actually eat breakfast after all. He’d been working on developing the habit as of late, and it was certainly due to Gael’s insistence on making it that Morse owed it to. 

The coolness of the tiles under his bare feet was a new sensation that he was going to have to get used to- he was going to have to get used to a fair amount of new things with the flat, particularly the space, the freedom, the comfort, although he expected it wouldn’t be all that difficult. One such sight he’d become accustomed to seeing was standing before him in the kitchen space in the form of Gael whistling some unfamiliar pop song with a hand towel slung over his shoulder as he cracked eggs over the skillet, two plates already set out for toast. He’d thought to grab a shirt from the last box that still lay in the dining room area waiting to be unpacked, and Morse almost laughed at how haphazardly the clothes had been stuffed back in, clearly from Gael very specifically trying to find his blue tee that he was currently wearing. 

Against all forms of reason in the universe, Gael Edwards was a  _ morning person,  _ and it had taken Morse a solid week of them sharing Gael’s flat during Morse’s recuperation from the Mercer shooting to get used to the other man waking at an earlier than decent hour to make breakfast for the both of them. There had been the initial anxiety over Gael’s absence on the other side of the bed that plagued him each morning, but it was always the whistling or singing from the other room that reminded Morse of his presence, effectively calming him. 

Pale yellow curtains covered the upper half of the window above the sink, allowing plenty of morning sunlight to stream in not only through there, but the large window on the other side of the room in the designed ‘dining space’ which consisted currently of a small dining table and four chairs that stood indignantly above the remaining boxes and miscellaneous furniture. The broad ledge beneath the window was basked in sunlight and Morse remembered Gael saying something about wanting to put some potted plants there. It was something that Morse himself would never think of, but as he pictured it he couldn’t help but smile. 

Morse reached around Gael to grab a glass from one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the tap and sitting down at the table, watching Gael’s impossibly cheerful antics. It was calming, seeing Gael go through his usual morning routine, one that he had so easily incorporated Morse as a part of. He located a pen and his half finished crossword from the night before, setting to work on completing it, but he couldn’t help but keep glancing over at Gael and smiling, a soothing warmth spreading through his chest. He was sooner or later discovered staring when Gael turned around and laughed- not unkindly, but with pleasant mirth. 

“You’re never going to finish that crossword by staring at me, you know,” Gael pointed out, eyebrow raised jokingly.

“And you’re going to ruin those eggs if you keep staring at me staring at you,” Morse smiled over his glass of water and Gael threw his head back as he laughed again, a rich, joyful sound that seemed to make the room impossibly brighter. 

“I ought to teach  _ you  _ how to cook properly then, if that’s how you’re going to be.” Gael teased, wiping his hands off on the towel and bringing the plates over to the table, making a second trip to the kitchen area for the silverware.

“You can if you like burnt toast and not much else,” Morse smirked lightly, knowing it was well meant. 

“Well, even if you’ve just fallen in love with me for my cooking I’d still be happy with that.” 

“Oh no, you’ve got me.”

“Be quiet and eat your eggs, Morse.” 

The second they made eye contact they burst out laughing. 

Morse took it upon himself to clear the table once they finished so that Gael could actually start getting ready for work himself and Morse soon joined him as they fell into a routine they’d become all too used to when sharing Gael’s old flat, Morse finding Gael’s watch under the bed and Gael locating Morse’s favoured pen from where it had fallen down the back of the nightstand. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Morse groused when Gael put his tie on for him, but he wasn’t really complaining since the proximity allowed him to sneak one or two small kisses in and the feather light brushes of Gael’s fingertips against his neck sent brief sparks down his spine as he fitted the burgundy fabric underneath the ironed shirt collar. 

Gael’s mouth quirked into a smile that clearly said,  _ I know I don’t but I want to anyway.  _ Instead of saying it out loud, he gave Morse one last kiss and sat on the edge of the bed to wrestle his shoes on. 

It was at exactly eight-fifteen that a knock sounded on the door and Morse was already downstairs in the living room waiting for Thursday to arrive as he sat in a comfortable armchair they’d managed to wrangle into Strange’s cousin’s box-truck and transfer from Gael’s flat. 

He’d flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and scribbled down a reminder to check in with Dorothea Frazil later about what she was able to dig up through her friends in London given she didn’t call him first. Once the knocks came, Morse snapped the notebook shut and stowed it safely in his pocket, reaching the door before Gael who was already halfway down the stairs. 

Inspector Thursday stood on the front step, looking much brighter than he did at that point in the morning, and Morse immediately noticed the diminished scent of tobacco that always seemed to cling to the man like a second skin. Sundays were laundry day in the Thursday household, if Morse remembered correctly. The freshly clean clothes would begin their collection of pipe smoke anew every Monday. 

“Morning, Morse,” Thursday greeted with a pleasant nod, and as Morse stepped aside to admit him into the foyer he felt an oddness in the gesture before realizing that it was a strange reversal of their normal routine. It was usually one of the Thursdays admitting Morse into their home in the morning with the car behind him on the street, not the other way around. 

Distracted by that thought, Morse neglected to repeat the greeting, instead watching as Thursday looked around the ground floor of the flat approvingly. “Well this is very nice indeed. Oh, and there’s Gael, good morning, lad.”

“Morning, Fred,” Gael said with a smile, edging his way past them in the hall that was just shy of being too small to suit three people grouped together at once. “There’s some coffee on if you’d like, unless you two need to head off now.” 

“I’m afraid there’s a body in need of attending to so I’ll have to take you up on that another time,” Thursday said regretfully. “Oh, I nearly forgot, my Joan told me about the state of your front room,” he turned around to the open doorway and picked up two paint cans he’d left on the front step. The lids were smattered with flecks of rust and flaking chips of white paint but didn’t seem too dented or aged. “and I remembered we had these left over in the shed from touching up the guest room last year.”

“Oh, sir, you didn’t need to-” Morse began, already trying to refuse them, but Thursday, as expected, wouldn’t have any of it.

“I know I didn’t. Call it a housewarming gift,” Thursday handed them off to Gael when Morse wouldn’t take them. “They’ve been hammered down a bit tight so mind yourself when you try and open them.”

“We’ll make sure to do it in the yard so we don’t accidentally put holes in the walls we need to paint,” Gael grinned, setting the cans down so he could shake Thursday’s hand. “Thank you, Fred. From me and Morse both, since we know he won’t say it.” 

If Morse melted into the floor and ceased to exist in that moment he would’ve considered it a small mercy. But, seeing as that wasn’t an option, he cleared his throat and nodded toward the car. “Shall we head off, then?”

Thursday nodded and retrieved the keys from his pocket, throwing them up and catching them with ease. “You in need of a lift, Gael?”

Gael checked his watch and shook his head. “No, that’s fine, my bus is only thirty past, anyway. Besides, I’d only hold you up, I can’t remember where I put my keys. We moved so many things around-”

“Pocket of yesterday’s trousers,” Morse allowed himself a small smile as he remembered. It wasn’t the first time Gael had made that mistake, and it wouldn’t be the last. “You didn’t put them through the wash, did you?”

“Didn’t get around to it, thank god. You’re a saint.” Gael’s hand fell to Morse’s shoulder as he leaned in to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t go running after any mad killers before lunchtime, would you?”

Morse swore his face went as red as a beet, but Thursday paid no mind, seeming rather good humoured as they left Gael to finish getting ready for work, climbing into the Jag. Thursday passed the keys off to Morse as he reached for the handle to the driver’s side door and they set off down the road, clear and unburdened by much traffic this early in the morning. 

“Settling in nicely, are you?” Thursday asked, glancing over at Morse while he drove. Getting much more than a simple answer from him would be like trying to get blood out of a stone, even nowadays. Joanie’s brief snippets of gossip when she dropped by to help her mother with the shopping some mornings provided more insight into Gael and Morse’s life than the detective sergeant would ever willingly divulge himself. 

“Early days,” Morse shrugged dismissively. There it was. “It’s nice though, we both like it. Plenty of room.” 

He still bore the traces of a man mortified by being kissed in front of his boss, which Thursday found endlessly amusing. It wasn’t even that Morse thought Thursday would disapprove- Thursday had made his support for Edwards very clear indeed and made certain Morse knew that no one at the nick bore any ill thought against either of them. No, it was just that Morse had a very complicated relationship with affection. 

“But you’re happy.” 

“Yes,” Morse said, and he really did look it, his eyes ever so brighter as he smiled a little. “I am.” 

“Good,” Thursday settled back in the passenger seat, satisfied with the short conversation. He knew what wanted to know, that Morse was happy. Happy with Gael, happy with the flat, just happy. He looked out the windscreen as they reached an intersection and nodded toward the left. “You’ll want to go that way, Morse.”

Morse blinked in confusion, but he obeyed nonetheless, turning the wheel and taking them left down the street where they would usually go right. “We’re not headed to the station, sir?”

“There’s a body that needs seeing to at the Primrose Inn,” Thursday said and Morse wracked his brain, trying to remember the address. There had been a dispute between a customer and staff member that required police intervention just last month. Morse hadn’t gone himself, but Trewlove asked him to look over the report. 

“That’s the one near the Flag, isn’t it?” Morse frowned, picturing it. He must’ve driven by it before and if his memory serves right, he knew just what it looked like. A small, two storey inn tucked just out of the way from the colleges but close enough to be convenient. It was more of a lodging than an inn since it could only house so many occupants with its small space, but he wasn’t going to argue nomenclature. “Just down the road.” 

Thursday nodded affirmatively, his face darkening as he scowled. “That’s right, just past the Flag. Bad luck in that area today, Morse. I just hope it’s not catching.”

That made him glance over again, trying to glean any sort of clue from his expression before turning back to the road ahead. “Sir?” 

“The Lamb and Flag was turned over in the early hours of last night,” Thursday elaborated, looking positively foul. “Strange is there now with Trewlove. Fancy ought to be meeting us at the inn with another constable.”

“Robbery, do you think?” Morse asked, seeing no other motive to smash up a perfectly decent pub in the middle of the night. It unsettled him to think about it, especially after his encounter there with Auden yesterday. They were scheduled to meet there at noon tomorrow, but that was looking unlikely now. 

There was no connection, surely. Just a bit of bad luck as Thursday said. 

“That’s my reading of it,” the inspector nodded apprehensively, checking his pockets for his pipe. “I only heard the bare bones of it earlier when I passed Strange on my way to get the car. We’ll know more later once he finishes his report.”

Knowing Strange, that could take longer than Morse cared for, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He asked no further questions and they reached the inn within minutes, the Jag ambling up the circular drive and parking behind DeBryn’s small blue car that was a bit too close to the police vehicle in front of it. 

The Primrose Inn was aptly named, it appeared. Colourful flowers grew in bursts all along the front of the inn, interspersed with bits of greenery and the occasional small hedge, and the wooden sign that hung from a pole by the road bore a carved impression of a primrose just under the name that was painted in sweeping gold letters. That small bit of opulence aside, it was an ordinary inn by all accounts. 

Well, aside from the fact that it was now a crime scene. 

The clouds from the day before seemed to have condensed and left the sky a sheet of mottled gray and white. It was significantly cooler than yesterday but not beyond the bounds of summer temperature, so it wasn’t quite the reprieve Morse expected, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable to be wearing his suit jacket at least. 

As Morse followed Thursday up the winding path to the door he saw a uniformed officer through a window on the ground floor. The officer waved at the inspector, indicating they joined him there and he turned the latch to push the window open and out, letting the morning air in. Morse thought it odd, but said nothing, letting Thursday lead the way through the front door of the inn. 

“Wotcher,” Fancy greeted them in the foyer, leading the way to the victim’s room. He seemed energetic as ever, practically bouncing as they walked alongside him, passing a severe looking woman Morse took to be the innkeeper and a frightened looking maid, likely the one who found the body that morning. “D’you hear about the Flag? That’s rotten luck, that. We’ll have to find somewhere else for lunch today, eh, Morse?” 

“Who’s the victim?” Morse asked a bit briskly, taking the conversation by the reins and promptly steering it in the right direction. He was already bristling with minor irritation and they hadn’t even begun to look over the scene. 

Fancy shrugged, unbothered by the interruption. “Doc hasn’t said yet, he only just got in right before you and the guv. No identification just yet.” 

“Have you checked with the landlady?” Thursday suggested lightly, cutting off whatever less than kind remark Morse had lined up instead. 

“Well, I did,” Fancy defended, stopping in front of the room that faced out toward the front drive. There was a number three nailed to the outer door frame and the constable standing guard, the same one that waved them in, gave a curt nod at Thursday and headed off down the corridor to give them space. “But she said the occupant of room three checked in under the name ‘John Stag’.” 

The weak play on ‘John Doe’ was not lost on either of them and Thursday merely looked even more apprehensive as he regarded the inside of the room. From his angle and with the door only partially open, Morse couldn’t see the victim just yet, but he could make out the interior of the room. It was as spacious as it could be in a building of this size, with light blue walls and a white trim that presented itself on the window frame and skirting. It had the barest necessities, a bed, a desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a door that likely led to the washroom. 

“Alright, that’ll do, constable.” Thursday patted him on the shoulder once. “Why don’t you go and finish taking statements from the staff, see if we can’t get a better picture of this ‘John Stag’ character.”

“I’m on it, guv.” Fancy nodded and headed back down the way they came. 

Thursday looked back at the room, his mouth curling into a sour expression before he led the way into the room. “Hope you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.” 

It must have been quite something to affect Thursday to say such a thing. He was looking forward to entering the room less and less by the second. 

“That bad?” Morse began to follow close behind him, pushing the door all the way open. 

It was the smell that hit him first, and Thursday coughed, removing his hat and holding it in front of his face. Morse was forced to pull the collar of his jacket up to his nose to keep the stench at bay. The room reeked of the acrid copper of blood and the thick, unpleasant odor of sick and bile that still lingered, even with the door to the washroom shut. There was no evidence of it coming from anywhere else, but it was no mystery as to why the constable felt the need to open the window. 

Soon, Morse’s eyes landed on the floor by the desk and he froze in his tracks, unmoving as his heart began to race, beating sharp against his sternum like it wanted to break free. All thoughts of the stench, the window, the state of the room, vanished as he realized what he was looking at. 

The body of Henry Auden lay on the ground before him, and Morse could do nothing but stagger back into the door frame, staring mutely at the face of the dead man. His unseeing eyes were directed at nothing, glassy and pale as the cloudy film of death stole away their richness and claimed what little colour his skin once held. 

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him. 

They’d only just spoken the night before, seen each last afternoon. Morse could still hear his voice in his ears, still picture the light in his eyes. It must be some mistake, a trick of the light, perhaps Morse was seeing things wrong-

But it was him. It was Henry. There was no damage to his features, nothing done to obscure his identity. And the body wore the same battered grey coat, the same clothes, the same wedding band. 

It was his face, his hair, his hands. His fingers, mangled and bloody-

All eyes were on the body so no one saw Morse stagger as he moved backward through the threshold and into the hall, his fingers scraping against the broken wood of the door frame as he sought any form of support to keep himself upright. He could taste something vile in the back of his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to swallow back his nausea even as his stomach rebelled against him. 

The second he keeled over, Morse knew he would find it very difficult to get back up. His knees buckled like reeds in the wind, bending and shaking, and he was torn between keeping his eyes closed and turning away, refusing to even look at the sight before him or facing what there was no escape from and learning what happened to Henry. 

So he forced himself to look. To take it all in. He could at least do that for him. He  _ had  _ to. 

The room was an absolute mess to say the very least. It looked as if a strong storm had swept through it, scattering sheafs of papers all over the place. They were spread across the desk by the now open window, the bed shoved in the corner, and the floor, leaving only a handful of clear patches of the cheap, turpentine carpet visible underneath them which the officers were using like stepping stones, cautiously working their way around the papers- evidence- careful not to disturb or damage them. Some of the papers were smeared and spattered with dried blood, dull crimson and darkening with time, and Morse could see more streaks of blood on the desk and chair like bizarre and morbid paint strokes on the furniture. 

A length of twine dangled over the edge of the desk, the rope stained through with dark blood. It was cut and frayed in multiple places, and Morse quickly noticed the letter opener that sat in a small pool of red atop some more papers, bloody and horrific like the knife itself was wounded and bleeding out before him. There was a wadded up handkerchief just near enough to have its edges stained by the blood. If Morse was guessing correctly, it must have been used as a gag of some kind. Kept Auden quiet as he struggled to free himself. Otherwise someone was likely to have heard him cry out. 

He felt another wave of nausea crest over him and he tore his gaze away, glancing over the tossed contents of a suitcase and some fallen books before his gaze reached Auden’s body once again where he lay on the floor just at the foot of the desk. As if he’d tried to make his way back into the chair and failed, never to succeed. 

_ Close his eyes.  _ Morse wanted to say aloud, hoping Dr. DeBryn would grant him that small mercy without any questions asked.  _ Just close them.  _

It was too much to have Henry looking back at him in death. Auden had always effortlessly made eye contact when he spoke to people and Morse had a morbid sense that this wasn’t too different. There was still so much left unsaid, even after yesterday, but even as their eyes met, no words could pass from the dead man’s lips. 

Morse couldn’t help but remember what Auden said at the pub. He said that  _ Morse  _ was next. But it seemed he failed to take himself into account. 

And now here he was. 

Dead. 

He wondered if this was what Dorothea Frazil would find for him in London. This same scene, relayed over the phone to her, then to Morse when she rang later. Was this how Declan Kane met his end? How Mikhail Bulgakov had, if he was even dead at all?

No, it was too chaotic, too messy to be replicated. Something would connect them. The manner of death, perhaps. But not this. Not the way it looked.

Thursday finished observing a paper he picked off the ground and carefully made his way over to the body, his polished leather shoes methodically stepping around the scattered papers that littered the floor like torn up tiles. Some papers bore the slight smudges of footprints but whether it was the work of the killer, the clumsy footing of a PC, or the carelessness of a shocked hotel worker, was impossible to discern just yet. 

Morse took a few deep breaths in the clean air of the hall to steady himself and gradually followed in Thursday’s footsteps, closing the distance between himself and the body of his old friend. Each step felt like his shoe soles had transformed into those made of lead, weighing him back, preventing him from going forward. Against his own wishes he prevailed, coming to stand beside the inspector and the pathologist who was crouched on the floor beside the body just like it was any other. 

Up close, Morse could see the injuries clear as day. Despite the blood and the letter opener, Auden’s body seemed to be clear of stab wounds, although Dr. DeBryn would end up having the final say on that. The most visible wounds were to Auden’s hands, and Morse found them easier to focus on despite the damage to them. His wrists and hands were crossed with patternless cuts and knicks, one palm completely sliced open. Bruising to his wrists seemed to line up with the rope on the desk. If Morse had to guess, Auden had tried and succeeded to cut himself out of his bonds with the knife, slicing up his hands in the awkward process. But there was nothing to say how he died. 

What made Morse’s stomach do an uncomfortable turn was what he guessed had been done to Auden’s right hand. A few of his fingers were twisted and bent in unnatural ways, his fingernails bloody and bruised, knuckles swollen and dark. It looked as if someone had stepped on them.  _ Hard.  _ Crushed them. And then  _ twisted-  _

It must have been brutal. 

Morse pressed his lips into a firm line and looked away, breathing sharply through his nose. He’d seen enough. 

Dr. DeBryn looked up at the two detectives, his glasses sliding back up the bridge of his nose from where they’d fallen, and Morse took note of his particularly grim expression, the unpleasant turn of his mouth that suggested he’d discovered something he’d rather not have. 

There was a notebook in his hand, a battered leather brown diary, that looked like one which would be bound with a cord, and Morse saw a bit of string on the floor by the corner of the nearby desk that seemed to correspond to it. It didn’t look like DeBryn’s. Must have been Henry’s. 

“Morse,” DeBryn said in his usual simple, concise acknowledgement. “Inspector Thursday.”

“Doctor.” Thursday reached up to remove his hat, a gesture of respect that Morse would have been touched by if his mind was capable of processing anything as trivial as that in the moment. “What do we have here?” 

_“What_ _we_ _have,”_ the doctor arched a small, greying eyebrow and gestured vaguely around him at the room as a whole. “Is ‘a rather great big mess of a crime scene’, according to young George. And, considering the victim’s stomach contents are already in the bathroom sink, we also have a much shorter autopsy to look forward to later. But _what_ is not the question I’m here to answer. _Who_ and _how_ rests much more comfortably within my scope.”

If the pedantic nature of DeBryn’s statement had any irritable effect on the inspector, he didn’t show it. Enough years of being subjected to the brashness of his bedside manner left hardly a ripple in the water nowadays. Instead, Thursday sighed and replaced his hat atop his head, rephrasing his question. “Alright,  _ who  _ do we have, then? Not ‘John Stag’, I imagine.”

“Henry.” Morse couldn’t stop himself from saying, even as DeBryn reached for the nearby wallet. The name now tasted like stale copper in his mouth, as if it had gone bad as soon as it’s owner had passed. “His name is Henry. Henry Auden.”

Thursday looked at him, confusion knitting his brows together as several expressions flickered across his weathered features. “Morse?”

DeBryn had the wallet open and gave a nod, handing the item over to Thursday with some care before he turned to Morse, peering at him over his spectacles. “Detective Sergeant Morse, you’ve either mastered the whimsical art of clairvoyance in a very short period of time or there’s something you’d like to share with us.”

“Morse,” Thursday repeated gravely, and there was something troubled in his eyes as they hardened into flint, sharp enough to strike a flame with their severity. “What do you know? Who is he?”

“He-” Morse cast another glance at the body, taking in his dark hair, the shape of his jaw, the mole by his ear.  _ Those eyes. _ “We were together in Signals over in Germany. He was-” Morse searched for a more adequate word and couldn’t quite come up with it. There was too much complicated history to be compacted into a single title. Best keep it simple for now. “He was my friend.”

Thursday drew his shoulders back as he regarded Morse seriously, his voice stern and steady, the way it was when he questioned people. Suspects. And now, Morse. “Been in contact with him recently?”

“I saw him at the Flag yesterday after the fair,” he answered, his mind reeling as he realized that surely there must be a connection between Auden’s death and the break in at the pub. It was too much of a coincidence. Too close together, too soon. Morse swallowed, his throat refusing to stay anything other than dry as bone for long. “I didn’t go to meet him, he was just there. And at the fair as well. I didn’t even know he was in Oxford until then.”

“He’s not local?”

Morse shook his head, recalling what little Auden told him about himself yesterday. “After we were discharged from Signals he settled down in London, married, I don’t know much else.”

He suddenly realized that he didn’t even know if Auden had children or not. Would Henry have told him even if he had? Morse wasn’t sure. But the thought of Henry having children out there- children now without a father- it was enough to make him feel sick again. 

“Do you have a phone number?” Thursday pressed, searching like he was casting a bucket into a well, hoping for anything to come back up with the rope, anything at all. “An address? Some way we can contact his wife?”

Morse shook his head, feeling guilty in his helplessness. “No. Just her name. Eva.” 

_ Eva Warlow. Eva Auden.  _ The names conflicted and he settled for what he could manage. Just Eva. 

There was a commotion out in the hall and Morse heard the PC outside arguing with someone else. “Sir, you can’t-”

“No, I need to see him! He told me he was in room three- I need to see him, I need to-  _ get off of me!” _ another man barked, and two sets of hurried footsteps grew closer and closer. 

Thursday looked toward the doorway but Morse’s gaze was caught as he turned his eyes back to Auden’s body and noticed something on his wrist. It was almost lost to the bruising from the rope above the cuff of his sleeve. 

It looked like-

“Oh,  _ Christ _ , no.” the voice of man who had fought off the constable breathed. There was a loud sound as the man swore and slammed his fist against the door frame and Morse turned in time to see him sagging into it as he himself had only moments before. “No. It  _ can’t _ be.”

A biting remark was perched on his tongue as he prepared to demand what the man was doing there- it was a crime scene after all- but as soon as he laid eyes on him, Morse suddenly felt as if all the air had been struck from his body, leaving him breathless as he stared numbly, unsure if he could believe what he was seeing.  _ Who  _ he was seeing. 

The man before him was dressed in a crisp dark suit and charcoal shirt which threw his light skin in contrast with it and his neatly combed black hair. He was tall and somewhat lean, but far from weak. There was a strength in the set of his jaw, the sturdiness of his features, and the way his pale green eyes shone resiliently out from beneath his dark brows. 

Henry had mentioned Adam Lomas a few times when they spoke at the pub, but according to him, Adam had been in Glasgow last they spoke. But that was two days ago, according to Henry. It was jarring, going from imagining him in Scotland, too distant, too far away to even solidly exist once again, to seeing him in the flesh after all those years. 

Unlike seeing Auden, Morse didn’t feel that same wariness or aversion. He- 

Well, he didn’t know  _ what  _ he felt. 

It wasn’t comfortable.

Morse swallowed, finally forcing himself to speak, unsure of what to say except, “Adam.”

And suddenly, all eyes were on them. 

Adam Lomas stared back, blatantly surprised. Something in his expression shifted too quickly for Morse to notice before his lips drifted into a tight smile, green eyes fixing on him and unwittingly trapping him in place. 

“Hello, Morse. It’s been a long time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Certa Cito 
> 
> Buckle up fellas, it only gets darker from here on out


	6. Certa Cito

_ Tiergarten, Berlin  _

_ June 5, 1961 _

_ Adam Lomas took a long drink of his whisky, the glass wet with condensation that threatened to drip onto Morse’s notebook which was open next to the flimsy beer mat. “You never go anywhere without that thing, do you?” _

_ The pub wasn’t as busy as usual, given that it was a Monday evening, but a fair amount of people sat around them, smoking obscenely large cigars and trading conversation in German and English, rare snippets of Russian coming from somewhere distant. If Morse wanted to, he could have pretended to not hear Adam and continued his translating in the notebook. But Adam was always decent to him. Morse could at least try and return the favour. _

_ “Force of habit, I suppose,” Morse said with a small shrug, looking back at the nonsensical combination of Russian and German words before him.  _

_ Each member of their detachment had been given the same pocket sized notebook with carbon transfer sheets underneath each page to help with their cryptology work. It was true, Morse had taken up the habit of carrying it with him wherever he went in case an idea or solution struck him at some random moment. Just last week he’d picked up a new numbers station coming through from the Russian sector to an unknown source on the British side. There was something strangely recognizable about the gibberish words that floated across the airwaves and Morse had all of the most recent messages scrawled in his notebook.  _

_ It had become almost routine for all of them to head down to the nearby pub at least once or twice a week, especially when the spring was slowly beginning to give way to summer, and Morse was grateful that he still wasn’t in the barracks with Barrow anymore. After nearly a year in Berlin with a room of his own, Morse had forgotten how good quiet really was. It didn’t do much for the heat, but it was one less thing to contend with when he was trying to sleep. And nobody teased him about not drinking.  _

_ Well, at least not as much as Barrow had.  _

_ The six of them were gathered around their usual table in the corner, both a strategic point since they could practically see and hear everything in the pub from the vantage point, but also because it was the only table that could accommodate their large group.  _

_ “Oh, leave him alone, Adam,” Declan laughed, even as Adam leaned into Morse’s shoulder to get a good look at what he was writing. “He’s the only one not drinking, let him have his fun where he can.”  _

_ “I am drinking,” Morse pointed out, tapping his glass lemonade with the tip of his pen, acutely aware of the warmth of Adam’s arm against his own and the closeness of his face. If it was anyone else, Morse would have tried to move away, but he was already crowded into the corner of the booth so there wasn’t much choice either way. Still, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. “Just not what you’re having.”  _

_ “No, you haven’t touched it in half an hour, Morse, the ice has even melted,” Declan reached across the table and snatched Morse’s lemonade away, pouring a liberal amount into his own glass and mixing it into his gin. “You don’t mind sharing, do you? I want to see what Henry’s been fussing about.” _

_ Henry pretended to look irritated over his gin and lemon and John lightly smacked the back of Declan’s head. “Knock it off, Kane. Lomas, give the man some space, he’s trying to concentrate.” _

_ “It’s fine-” Morse started to insist, but Adam was already putting his hands up in surrender and stopped leaning against him.  _

_ “Sorry, mother,” Adam grinned at Warlow. “At least we know you’re capable of playing favourites now.” _

_ Beside Warlow, Doyle arched an eyebrow, taking a swig of his own drink. “Oh, you want to talk favourites? He’s not the one draping himself all over Morse here. What are you trying to do, give him a heart attack?” _

_ The table erupted into laughter and Morse felt his face burn uncomfortably, turning back to the notebook in front of him as the conversation quickly shifted to something benign and of little interest to him.  _

_ There wasn’t a constant stream of work to be done most days, but whatever they were able to do was important enough, and Morse was rarely sedentary when he could afford to be. Tensions between East and West Berlin were becoming more and more taught by the day and fears over a forceful annexation by the Russians were not completely unfounded.  _

_ They’d been sent off to Berlin with “a load of kit” as Declan Kane had put so eloquently. Teleprinters, radios, everything they could have possibly needed and possibly more. Nearly a year had passed since they first set foot in the large row house in the Tiergarten quarter of Berlin within the British sector of the city. While the house had some elements of disrepair to it, peeling paint and creaky stairs, it was large enough to suit their purposes and house six men with their own rooms.  _

_ The detachment was primarily composed of officers from the Thirteenth Signals Regiment with only two men joining them from the Sixteenth- Declan Kane, an intelligent looking officer with burn scars covering his right forearm, and Mikhail Bulgakov, an austere, young Russian expat.  _

_ Morse recognized the name of the Russian author and had asked Warlow about it when Bulgakov was out of earshot. Apparently, the man was a Russian defector and gave information to the British government in exchange for citizenship. The alias was meant to protect his identity should they come looking for him or his family. Morse questioned why Mikhail Bulgakov had been chosen. Why not just a random name that didn’t belong to someone well known?  _

_ Mikhail shrugged and told him in his surprisingly good English that he just thought it was funny.  _

_ “They wanted to call me ‘Michael Brown’,” he said with a deep laugh when he regaled them with the story of his new identity. “I like my choice.”  _

_ Auden had a fair knowledge of the German language and most of them knew the basics required to manage living in Berlin and translating ciphers, but it was Lomas and Bulgakov that carried the brunt of the Russian translating. _

_ John Warlow, as the most senior officer among them, had been put in charge of their secret unit, with Lomas as his Second Lieutenant. It was no secret that Warlow clearly hoped the position would go to Morse, but it wasn’t to be. That was just fine with Morse. Adam Lomas was a decent man and over the year they spent working together in Berlin they grew to be good friends, no animosity between them at all. Lomas taught Morse Russian himself during the many periods where they weren’t hunched over teleprinters and poring over new messages.  _

_ Just yesterday, the American President, Kennedy, joined the Russian leader, Nikita Kruschev, at the Vienna Summit in Austria. Then, this morning, a new message came through a number station Morse discovered only a week ago. A message including the name ‘Jack’. Jack Kennedy, presumably.  _

_ The numbers station had only sent out two messages since he first found it. True to the name, many of the words within the message were indeed numbers, but they meant something. All he had in his hands was a closed lock, and it was no use to them without a key.  _

_ Privet. Muza. Vera. Trinadstat. Jack. Dvadtsat tri. Ist ein. Nul. Langweiliger. Nul. Junge. Ben. Nul. Nul. Nul. Nul. _

_ Morse was pulled from his musings when he felt the familiar closeness of Adam’s presence and when he turned to face him they were nearly nose to nose, Lomas’ pale, sage green eyes mere inches from his own. At this proximity Morse could see mesmerizing spots of yellow in his rises like flecks of gold. _

_ Or drops of poison.  _

_ He waited for someone to chastise Lomas again but everyone was too caught up in a story Warlow was telling about a mishap at his and Eva’s wedding a few years back to notice.  _

_ “Muse.” Adam’s lips curled into a smile as he read. “How very Greek. Right up your street, then.”  _

_ “I was thinking the same thing.” Morse felt a similar smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “‘Oh sing, Muse’. It’s likely part of the key.” _

_ Adam hummed affirmatively and looked back at the page. “We’ll go on, show me how far you’ve gotten with your translating.”  _

_ It wasn’t a challenge, but Morse still felt the desire to prove himself- which, oddly, seemed to matter even more since it was Adam he was talking to.  _

_ Morse cleared his throat and took up his pencil and pointed each word out. “The message shares a pattern with the other, they both start with the greeting, indicating the start of the message. Then, ‘muza’. Muse. Vera is next, and I first thought it was a name, but it’s also ‘faith’ in German.” _

_ “You’ve written ‘cross’ here, though.” Adam pointed out, tapping the paper. “Cross is ‘kreuz’, if you’re looking for the Christian variety.”  _

_ “That’s the thing,” Morse said with a wry smile. “The connotation of ‘faith’ is so heavily Christian that it’s almost difficult to think of that word and not visualize their most important symbol. A cross. If I’m comparing this message to the last as a template, then the third word should be an action or command. ‘Pray’ didn’t seem quite right, but ‘cross’-” he made to spread his hands side to accentuate the point but aborted the movement when he realized he’d only end up hitting Lomas.  _

_ “Crossing what?” he asked, intrigue written across his face.  _

_ “I don’t know.” Morse shook his head. “I figure it’s something to do with the numbers. ‘Thirteen’ is next, that could be a word or a line number. The other numbers, ‘twenty three’ and the two zeroes seem to be a time. The four zeroes at the end mark the end of the message.”  _

_ “And the German?” Adam arched an eyebrow. “Jack ist ein langweiliger junge.”  _

_ “Jack is a dull boy.”  _

_ Adam let out a half laugh, falling against the back of the booth. “Well, I think we can say that our Russian friends weren’t very impressed by Mr. Kennedy yesterday. So it’s two messages in one, this. One in Russian with the bloody book key or something, and the other in German interspersed with the time. How do you know it's time, anyhow? It could be another line or word.” _

_ Morse circled the word ‘Ben’ with his pencil. “You’re from London. What does this mean to you?” _

_ Lomas stared at the name for a few moments before a pleased grin spread across his face and he shook his head, chuckling. “A massive bleeding clock tower. You’re a genius.” _

_ That made him flush and he turned away as he felt a warmth creep up his cheeks. “Hardly. A genius would’ve thought to go to the bookshop before the pub. I’ll have to try them tomorrow and see if they’ve any Homer in.” _

_ “Why not tonight?”  _

_ Morse angled the face of his watch so both of them could see. “At this hour? They’ll be closed.”  _

_ Adam Lomas’ smile was a grand mixture of mischief and cleverness that felt more intoxicating than any drink the pub had to offer.  _

_ “Oh, Morse, don’t tell me you’ve never picked a lock before.”  _

_ Fifteen minutes later, Adam had somehow coerced Morse into joining him in his harebrained scheme and they found themselves standing inside the nearest bookshop. Lomas successfully picked the lock with a hairpin he talked a barmaid into lending him, but the thing was so bent out of shape that it was in no state to be returned to its owner. Morse had worried that Lomas was drunk and only decided this was worth doing because of his inebriation, but his hands hardly twitched as he worked the lock open, his face the vision of concentration and clarity, even with the scent of whisky warm on his breath.  _

_ Given that the shop was in the British sector of Berlin, there was a fair amount of literature in English, and they found themselves in the classics section, poring over the spines in the light of the biggest lamp they dared turn on.  _

_ “This really could have waited until morning, Lomas.” Morse hissed, whispering even in the clear emptiness of the shop.  _

_ Adam answered with a dismissive shrug, smiling smugly. “Come on, Morse. You don't drink, you don’t curse, you haven’t even got a girl. You really need to live a little.” _

_ “Women are the last thing on my mind right now,” Morse huffed, shaking his head and pulling a copy of The Iliad from the shelf. “Where do you stand on that, anyway?”  _

_ Adam looked up from his slim edition of The Odyssey. “What, women? Not really my area, at least not now, if you know what I mean.” _

_ “I think I do.” Morse replied, wishing he hadn’t as soon as the words left his mouth.  _

_ Whatever he expected Lomas’ response to be, it wasn’t the apprehensive look and slightly raised eyebrow. “Well, look at you, Morse. You’re just full of surprises.”  _

_ Morse had to scoff at that, hefting The Iliad in hand. “I read classics at Lonsdale, Lomas. Half the books are just like this one, about death and homosexuals. I’m not unfamiliar.”  _

_ “Still, you were engaged to be married, right?” Adam returned his book to the shelf and went down a ways, searching for something else. “You’re like Achilles. He loved both Briseis and Patroclus, women and men.”  _

_ “I think the similarities begin and end there, Lomas.”  _

_ He plucked a new book from the shelf, turning it over in his hand. “You don’t feel the burden of choice hanging over you? Fate? Are you not afraid of making a decision that could damn you?” _

_ “Clearly not, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you talk me into breaking in here.” Morse sighed, putting The Iliad back and walking over to Adam. “What’s this?” _

_ Adam held open Virgil’s Aeneid to the first page, tapping the thirteenth word with his finger. “‘Shores’. Cross shores sounds appropriate. That message came in this morning, right? What was the time they said?” _

_ “Twenty three hundred hours,” Morse looked at his watch under the lamplight. “Eleven. It’s almost ten now.”  _

_ “Then there’s still time to report it.” Lomas rummaged in his pockets for a moment and dug out some money- far more than the book actually cost- and placed it by the till, tucking The Aeneid into his pocket. “Russian agents sneaking across the River Spree in just over an hour. Doesn’t sound like we should’ve waited until morning after all.” _

_ Morse turned the lamp off and resisted the urge to wipe it down to erase their presence from the shop, but there was no way of doing that, not with Adam ‘buying’ the book.  _

_ In darkness it was hard to see where Lomas was, but he soon caught his silhouette walking toward the door, lit with the lights from the street lamps outside. The glow didn’t reach past the first couple of shelves, but it was enough for Morse to see by as he followed Lomas to the door.  _

_ Suddenly, Lomas stopped, turning toward Morse, an odd expression on his face.  _

_ Morse didn’t even have time to look confused before he was being kissed, Lomas’ hand both gentle and firm against the side of his face as he pulled him close.  _

_ The suddenness left Morse almost paralyzed and he wasn’t even sure how he wanted to react, but by the time he made up his mind to start kissing back, Adam was already pulling away, his eyes glittering in the lamplight.  _

_ “I just had to do that before someone else did.”  _

_ Morse was slightly breathless and he swore he could taste the faintest traces of whisky on his tingling lips. “Lomas-”  _

_ What was he going to say? Was he going to tell Lomas that he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing? That would have been a lie. He’d hardly finished his first glass of whisky. And besides that, Adam Lomas was not the sort of man to do something without meaning to.  _

_ It felt nice. Morse couldn’t deny that. It felt nice after nearly two years of nothing but memories of Susan he held onto like shattered glass, beautiful to behold in the light but painful to grasp too tightly. So when Lomas kissed him again, Morse found himself accepting it without any further hesitation, almost melting where he stood.  _

_ “I think Adam is more appropriate now.” he said with a smile that was barely illuminated by the street lamps outside. _

_ “Adam.”  _

———

_ Present _

“Henry- What- what happened to him?” Adam Lomas surged into the room but Inspector Thursday moved to intercept him, holding him back as the man stared in shock at the body on the floor, his lips moving soundlessly for a moment, unable to form words. He tore his eyes away from Henry’s body to rest on Morse once again. 

They didn’t look pleading. Morse wasn’t even sure Lomas knew  _ how  _ to look that way. It wasn’t pleading. Compelling. 

“Morse, what happened?” 

_ The same thing that’s going to happen to you and me.  _ Morse thought distantly.

He should have been more surprised to see Lomas there, but after the shock of Auden’s appearance the day before- well, anything was possible after that. His past hadn’t come back to haunt him. That would be too passive. No, it had come back to terrorize him. Kill him, even. Auden was just the beginning. The door was open, and Lomas had now come through. Morse didn’t care to see what else might follow. 

“You need to step outside, sir.” Thursday was attempting to be patient with Lomas, but Morse could see irritation beginning to bleed through as Adam tried to wrestle his way out of the inspector’s grip. 

Finally, he relented, and Adam stepped back into the doorway, eyes slightly wild from the struggle as he composed himself, tugging his suit jacket straight and smoothing his hair back. 

“Right.” Adam said, looking around the room at the faces staring back at him. “Well, I’m sorry it had to go this way, but I need answers, and you clearly don’t have them just yet. Henry Auden’s death is now a matter for Special Branch.” 

“What gives you the authority to do that?” Morse found his voice, still unable to take his eyes off the newcomer.

“Isn’t it obvious, Morse?” Lomas gave him a knowing smile, tinged ever so slightly with sadness. Maybe pity. “He was one of ours.”

Thursday looked back at Auden’s body as if suddenly regarding the dead man in a new light. “This man was Special Branch?” 

“That’s right.” Lomas nodded, gesturing at the window to where a fourth car was now visible in the circular drive- shining and black with a man in the driver’s seat. “My colleague, Thomas Malahide, and I were due to meet with Henry today to discuss some rather delicate matters concerning-” he paused, looking toward Morse. “Well, concerning Morse, as it happens. Among others. That’s all I’m prepared to say at this point in time, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll make the arrangements for Auden’s body and-”

“No!” Morse spat, taking an angry step toward Lomas. Thursday threw out an arm to stop him from going any further- from doing something he might regret. The last time Lomas tried to take things into his own hands, it hadn’t gone well for anyone involved. “You can’t just do this, Adam. I won’t let you.”

If Special Branch took over Henry’s death, that was the end of it. Morse would have no involvement whatsoever. But he felt indebted to Auden now, he felt involved now. Whatever Henry got himself caught up in, the same snare that got Kane and Bulgakov- Morse wanted to help cut it down. If not for Auden, then for himself. For whoever was still left. 

They were being killed. One by one. What started in Berlin had found its way to London. And now, Oxford. 

Whether Morse wanted to or not, he was a part of this now. 

Adam seemed to find something in Morse’s expression that made him remain silent, eyes beckoning, expecting him to continue.  _ Go on, then. _

“He died on our ground. This isn’t just about Special Branch, this is about all of us.” Morse said adamantly, and he could feel Thursday’s confusion almost tangibly as he took a glance at the inspector’s face as he stepped away. 

There was a lot of explaining to be done about the background of this case, but Morse wasn’t sure how much of it he really wanted to share. He hadn’t even told  _ Gael  _ what was happening. But that was different. He wasn’t police. Morse could keep Gael out of this, keep him safe. Leave it at the nonexistent hall stand. 

Arching his brow, Lomas tucked his hands into his pockets. “Henry told you, then.” 

It was uncomfortable to hear Auden addressed so distantly when his body was still in the room. He was still  _ there-  _ but at the same, he wasn’t. It was too much to think about so Morse tried not to. 

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“Enough.” 

Adam cast his eyes up to the ceiling and pressed his lips into a firm, uncompromising line, clearly wrestling with a decision. He looked back at Henry’s body, scanned the papers strewn across the floor, and finally turned back to Morse, his expression softening ever so slightly. 

“If we’re going to be working this case together I have one condition,” Lomas faced Thursday, singling him out as the man in charge. 

Thursday gave him a long suffering look. “Well go on, we haven’t got all day. The doctor’s got to get your friend to the morgue.”

Adam seemed to blanch at that. “My only request is that Morse remains a part of this investigation. He’s close to it, and while you may see that as a hindrance, I view it as an asset.” 

The inspector looked to Morse as if to obtain his consent and Morse gave a stiff nod, turning away to look out the window- somewhere that wasn’t Adam Lomas or Dr. DeBryn crouched over Henry Auden’s body. 

“It’s settled, then.” Lomas gave a pinched smile. “It might be best to continue this conversation outside, give the doctor some space to work.” 

“That would be best,” Thursday agreed, gesturing for Lomas to lead the way. 

Morse faltered in the doorway as he moved to follow them, looking back at Auden one last time. In spite of his injuries, even changed by death, it was still him. It was easy sometimes to see the dead as nothing more than objects, humanity removed from them, but Morse had never really mastered that skill. 

They’d been friends, once. Could have been again. 

Why was it that everyone died before amends could be made? 

“Forget something, Morse?” DeBryn looked up from his examination of the lacerations on Auden’s hands, peering at the sergeant almost owlishly over the frame of his glasses. 

Morse sighed, rubbing at his brow tiredly. “I hope to. Doctor.” 

“Morse.” 

There was one more person to be addressed, one last goodbye to be given, but it was much too late. Morse left before another maudlin thought could seize him, catching up with Thursday and Lomas as they reached the front door of the inn, half ready to step outside. 

“I don’t think I caught your name.” Thursday was saying to Lomas as Fancy came up to join them, pocketing his notebook in an imitation of Morse’s usual manner. 

“Adam Lomas.” he shook Thursday’s hand readily, smiling politely as ever. “I don’t believe I caught yours either.”

“DCI Fred Thursday.” Thursday replied. “So how do you know our Morse, then?”

Lomas met Morse’s eyes as he answered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Morse and I go a long ways back.”

“He was in the same Signals unit as Auden and me,” Morse interjected before Lomas’ meaning could be taken any other way. “That’s what this is all about.”

Thursday looked as if he were about to ask a question, one that Morse would be unable to answer, when Adam held a hand up to silence him and a flicker of irritation crossed over the inspector’s face. 

“This is best discussed somewhere private.” Lomas’ voice held an edge to it. “I need to have a few words with Morse first, get some things cleared up-”

A commotion outside caused Morse’s head to snap toward the open door way and he saw the police constable heading toward a vehicle idling just at the mouth of the drive up to the inn, calling out to the driver to move along.

Morse’s breath stilled in his throat.

It was the grey car. The same one that was outside of the pub the day before. The one that sent Auden running. 

He was too far away to see anything clearly, but Morse could just make out the form of a camera through the driver’s side window.

“They’re taking pictures,” Morse said, stepping out onto the porch to get closer. 

“One of yours?” Thursday turned a scrutinizing look toward Lomas as they followed in suit and the constable neared the vehicle. 

“No,” Lomas shook his head, gesturing to a man sitting in a black car parked behind the Jag. “No, it’s just me and Mr. Malahide over there.”

“Could be one of Ms. Frazil’s.” Fancy suggested. “Ambulance chaser or something.”

If only it were that simple. 

Morse swallowed thickly, finding himself unable to do much other than stare at the mystery driver, identity concealed by distance and the camera in front of their face. “I saw this same car at the pub yesterday when I spoke with Auden. He seemed to recognize it.”

His killer, perhaps? But if Auden knew who was after him, surely he would have  _ told  _ Morse rather than leave him in the dark. Give him a warning of some kind. 

Maybe he didn’t know a name or a face. Maybe all he knew was the grey car that seemed to trail him like an unwanted shadow. 

Lomas and Thursday turned to him sharply. 

“You’re sure it was this one?” Lomas said slowly, eyes startled as he turned back to face the car. 

“Positive.”

Suddenly, the engine revved twice and the vehicle shot off down the street, tyres squealing shrilly before it disappeared around the corner. The constable made a halfhearted attempt to run after it, but he was left standing in the middle of the street, throwing his hands up into the air in defeat and jogging back up the path to the inn. 

“No reg on the car,” the constable reported, face flushed red as he panted, out of breath. “Must’ve taken the plate off.”

“Of course they did,” Thursday said darkly, casting his eyes up and taking a steady breath. “Have uniform keep a lookout. Finish up here, we’ll head back to the station and get started on working out what the hell this is all about.”

The last bit was directed very pointedly at Lomas who was still staring down at the far corner of the street where the vehicle vanished from, dark brow furrowed ever so slightly. If Morse didn’t know him any better, he would have thought that Lomas hadn’t heard a word Thursday said, but when he finally came back to himself he turned to the inspector and gave a slight shake of his head. 

“Take Malahide with you, he should be able to clear up some of the more minor details,” Lomas said with an air of authority, gesturing for the man to step out of the car. “He’ll go with you to the station and Morse will come with me.”

Morse looked at him and blinked, confused and feeling a quick surge of irritation rise within him. There he was again, making all the decisions for others. _ Some things really don’t change.  _ “Why would I be coming with you?”

Now it was Lomas’ turn to look confused. “Didn’t I say? We need to discuss things somewhere private.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Contra Mundum  
> the next chapter is going to entirely be composed of a (final?) flashback detailing the fate of John Warlow before moving on to the current case at hand. thank god the exposition is finally ending


	7. Contra Mundum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for this chapter: an unhealthy relationship (it ends), violence and injury, period typical language and political sentiments, and crude language around discussion of staged suicide (doesn't actually occur)
> 
> remember when I said Enigma was going to get dark? yeah, that starts about now
> 
> also this entire chapter is a flashback so gratuitous use of italics incoming

_ Tiergarten, Berlin _

_ August 12, 1961 _

_ They all knew what was coming.  _

_ Intelligence reached them before the day’s end. Walter Ubricht had signed the order to close the border between West and East Berlin and erect a wall. _

_ Berlin was being split in two.  _

_ Plans were already underway for a specialist Signals unit to move into RAF Gatow and Warlow had been on the phone all day with their superiors, receiving orders on what was to become of their current detachment. As things stood, by that evening, they received word that they were to transfer out to Gatow by morning. Their respective fates were to be decided from there. Kane, Bulgakov, and Doyle had already decided to request they be sent back to Birgelen to finish out their service and return home to England in September. Morse’s own time was running short, he could take the easy road out and no one would think anything of it.  _

_ But Lomas, Auden, and Warlow were staying.  _

_ Morse was at an absolute loss. He had nothing waiting for him back in England, no one he felt obliged to rush home to, not like Kane, who now had a fiancee after he proposed to his sweetheart when he took Christmas leave. Not like Doyle who had a job waiting. And not like John who, despite his being married, didn’t seem in any particular obligation to hurry back to his wife, Eva. He was too dedicated to his work, and according to him, Eva understood. Yet Morse would often see him twisting the wedding band on his finger, staring off into the middle distance in worried thought.  _

_ What did Morse have to gain by staying? He wasn’t even sure anymore. After two years with Signals in Germany, Morse had forgotten that he left behind tatters of an old life in Oxford. There was nothing to salvage there, not in his mind. But he didn’t feel the same burning sense of duty and righteousness that Warlow and Auden had. He didn’t have Lomas’ dedication, his sense of purpose and drive. Even with two years spent around the same people, after a year of living in the same house as the members of his detachment, Morse still felt impossibly displaced.  _

_ But there was nothing else for him. It was Oxford, or it was Berlin. He couldn’t afford to become permanently nomadic, drifting between brief spurts of purpose and surety, settling down only to move when the tides changed. Morse had to make a stand somewhere. He needed to make a choice.  _

_ It should have been easy to choose Berlin. After all, there was Adam. But whatever happened between them after that kiss only lasted a little over two months. It had been good, and Morse found himself the closest to happy he could claim to be the past two years, but by the second month he could see that something in Adam had shifted.  _

_ Why that was, Morse couldn’t say. But whenever Adam got close, whenever he touched him, it felt less like the portrait of Adam he had in his mind from that fateful night at the pub and more like a cutout of him, only all Morse was left with was the surrounding picture and not the image of the man himself. It was such a strange thing to think, and Morse had thought for the longest time that it was his own issue, that Adam was fine, that it was all in his mind. He couldn’t help but notice that there had been a price to- to whatever they had. As Morse and Adam got closer, he felt Henry shrinking back, becoming more unreadable, less reachable. He started to lose a friend.  _

_ Looking back, Morse could see all the things Adam did wrong. All the little mistakes that betrayed the facade that was introduced to Morse in the darkness of morning in Birgelen. In many ways, Adam Lomas in that final month was the same as he’d always been. Intelligent, clever, bold, and sharp. What was lost was the warmth. The humour turned dark and spoiled. And the sharpness was beginning to sting.  _

_ Falling out of love was a new concept for Morse. Only it wasn’t just his own doing. No, he’d been pushed into that fall. Whatever light that drew Morse to him in the first place had dimmed into something colder and less comfortable to be around. Morse let go, but it still felt like Adam was holding on to him.  _

_ It took a bloody great wall to finally sever that resilient grip.  _

_ A loud crash woke him that night and Morse jolted awake, casting off the remnants of an unpleasant dream best left forgotten and struggling out of the tangle of sheets he found himself in as he reached for the lamp. He paused for a moment, chest heaving as he propped himself up in bed and stared at the bedroom door, waiting for some other sound, some indication of what was happening outside. Across the room, Henry was already out of bed and pulling on a shirt. He never seemed to meet Morse’s eyes much in those last days, but he did then. And he looked worried.  _

_ For a moment, there was nothing but silence.  _

_ Then, an agonized yell, followed by another crash. It sounded like it was coming from one of the rooms across the hall.  _

_ It sounded like- _

_ Morse was scrambling out of bed before he even knew what he was doing, his heart hammering, panicked and confused in his chest. “I think that was Adam.” _

_ Henry seized him by the arm before he could reach the door and pushed him back, drawing a pistol from beneath his mattress. “Stay behind me, Morse.” _

_ He could do little other than stare. “Since when do you have a gun?”  _

_ The lack of a forthcoming answer was troubling but there wasn’t anything Morse could do to force a reply so he simply did as he was told, lingering behind Auden as he threw the door open and stepped out into the hall. The wooden floorboards creaked under their bare feet but it wasn’t the only sound Morse could hear. There was a scuffling coming from one of the other bedrooms, light spilling out into the hall from the open door nearest the stairs, and Morse drew in a sharp breath. He was sure it was Adam’s voice he heard. _

_ But the sound had come from John’s room.  _

_ “John?” Auden called, and more footsteps sounded nearby. Doyle was coming down from the floor above theirs, clearly having been woken by the sounds. “Adam?” _

_ “I could really use some help here!” Adam’s voice sounded strained from where it came within the room, his breathing ragged and heavy. From where Morse stood, Henry’s body was blocking much of the doorway and he could hardly see whatever it was that rendered Auden all but immobile. “Stop pointing that thing at me and help!” _

_ “Oh my God,” Auden finally breathed, stowing the gun into his waistband before hurling himself into the room. “Lomas, what the hell happened?” _

_ Morse held onto the door frame as he finally looked into the room and his heart threatened to stop once he took in the sight before him. _

_ The room had been absolutely tipped over with papers strewn everywhere, the desk’s chair knocked over, and even a handful of floorboards ripped up to expose dark spaces beneath them. John Warlow lay prone on the floor, his long limbs sprawled in such a way that only seemed to add to the chaotic mess in the room. Angry red marks circled his throat like he’d been choked out. Strangled. _

_ Morse tore his eyes away once his stomach gave an uncomfortable turn and he focused on Lomas who was being propped up on the floor by Auden, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. His brow was split by a small cut and the beginnings of a bruise were beginning to form on his jaw.  _

_ Protruding from above Adam’s left collarbone, close to his shoulder, was the penknife that John kept to sharpen his pencils. The front of his nightshirt was drenched in blood from the steadily bleeding wound and Morse felt himself become slightly lightheaded just looking at it.  _

_ “Don’t take it out,” Adam was saying through gritted, bloody teeth, his eyes squeezed shut in pain as he drew in sharp breaths. “Don’t take it out, don’t- FUCK!”  _

_ Henry had seized the knife by the hilt and yanked the small blade from his arm, but now the wound was bleeding even more freely. Doyle pushed past Morse into the room and grabbed a shirt off the floor, dropping to his knees in front of Lomas and tying it off around his shoulder in a makeshift bandage.  _

_ “What happened, Adam?” Henry looked around, staring at Warlow with an odd expression on his face. No one had gone to check on him yet. He remained untouched, facedown and unmoving on the floor.  _

_ It was very apparent to Morse what had happened. Adam and Warlow had fought. And Adam narrowly won.  _

_ “He’s a fucking traitor, Auden.” Adam rasped, wincing as Doyle pulled him to his feet. “I found him trying to hide those documents in the floor. I confronted him, I- I was going to expose him. And he just attacked me- I didn’t mean-” _

_ “Lomas, you need to calm down. John wouldn’t-” _

_ “Look. Just look!” Adam tore himself away from Doyle and thrust a piece of paper toward Henry. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” _

_ Morse couldn’t tell what was on the sheet but it looked like a copy of one of their teleprints from the BAOR. Same format. Only it was in Russian.  _

_ It didn’t make any sense. Why- _

_ “Fucking hell, John,” Henry ran a hand down his face, breathing heavily.  _

_ “There’s money under the floor with the rest of it.” Adam staggered into a wall and tipped his head back against it, breathing deeper now, easier without the small knife deep in his arm. “This isn’t good, Auden. These documents are only partials, copies of the originals. From just these few- they go back months. He’s been selling intelligence to the goddamn Russians.” _

_ No. No, this wasn’t right, this wasn’t happening.  _

_ Doyle dragged a hand across his head, closing his eyes. “What do we do now?” _

_ Adam looked down at John, his expression tormented. “I think- I think this is the part where I get arrested for murder.” _

_ But Auden was already shaking his head, peeling himself off the wall. “No. No, we can fix this.” He dragged the fall chair over and stripped the sheets from the bed, taking one and drawing it out into a makeshift rope. “No one has to know a damn thing. Here, Lomas, tie this off, you must know what I’m thinking.”  _

_ Adam’s face was pale with a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin, clearly still in pain, but his eyes hard and determined as he took the sheet from him. “Right. Okay.” _

_ Doyle shook his head, standing back with his hands raised at his sides. “No. Sorry, but no, this is mad.” _

_ “Soren, he may have been a traitor, but if this gets out his poor wife is going to have that hanging over their name.” Auden shook his head as he knelt over John’s body like he was trying to figure out how best to move him. “We cut this off here. Destroy the evidence. Make it look like a suicide. Type up some bollocks for a note. It’s the closest thing to mercy he’ll get. He dies with a clear name and Adam stays a free man.” _

_ Lomas had shaped the sheet into what Morse quickly realized was a noose. He swung it over an iron fixture in the wall and began securing it. Doyle swore and turned away, rushing out of the room.  _

_ Morse hadn’t spoken in all that time, staring in wordless shock at the scene in front of him, but finally unfroze then, managing to protest, “You can’t do this!”  _

_ Lomas looked to Morse as if suddenly realizing he was there for the first time. He let go of the noose and advanced on him quickly, and Morse knew he should’ve gotten out of the way, should’ve done anything other than just stand there and face him down, bit his body felt disconnected from his frenzied mind that was struggling to reconcile what was happening before his eyes.  _

_ This wasn’t Adam. It couldn’t be.  _

_ This wasn’t Henry. He would never do this to John. _

_ This wasn’t John. He couldn’t be a traitor.  _

_ “Get out of here, Morse.” Lomas ordered, shoving him into the hall as he began to close the door on him. “You don’t have to see this.” _

_ “Adam, what are you talking about-” Morse threw his weight against the door and forced it open, causing Lomas to forgo the task in favour of seizing Morse and bodily forcing him away. He struggled against his arms, but of course Lomas was stronger. Stronger than Morse, stronger than John, and he was in danger of being similarly subdued. “You killed him!” _

_ “He’s a traitor!”  _

_ “He can’t be!” Morse shoved Lomas and twisted out of his grip. “You’re wrong! He can’t-” _

_ “Both of you, stop it!” Auden was shouting, and he was in the hall in a flash, hands grabbing at one or both of them, trying to separate the two but hesitant, as if unsure who it was he was supposed to be helping.  _

_ Lomas pushed Morse into the wall of the corridor and grabbed at his shirt collar. “Morse, just listen-” _

_ The image of the marks around John’s neck flashed through his mind and in a blind panic Morse struck out, slamming his fist into the bandaged wound on Adam’s shoulder, causing the man to let out an inhuman howl of pain. Regret felt like a punch to the chest but there was nothing to be done. No one was thinking straight.  _

_ He pushed Adam away, but Adam pushed back, and Morse found himself falling not into the wall of the corridor, but into nothing.  _

_ Down the stairs.  _

_ He was distinctly aware of Auden yelling- or maybe that was just himself. Morse’s back connected with the sharp edges of the steps and excruciating pain shot up his spine, his vision going black at the edges, but it didn’t stop there as he went sprawling, barely able to even think about grabbing hold of the rails before he fell in a crumpled heap on the landing. He rolled onto his back, unable to keep the tears back as he struggled to breath, nearly every bone in his body aching all at once.  _

_ “Jesus- shit, Adam!” Henry shouted distantly, but Morse wasn’t watching to see whatever he was doing. Footsteps sounded, descending, and Morse somehow had the sense to grab hold of the bannister and weakly haul himself to his knees, leaning against the rails and looking up to see Auden coming down to him. _

_ Only it wasn’t Henry. It was Adam.  _

_ “Oh, fuck,” Lomas swore as he rushed down the stairs, dropping to his knees in front of Morse on the landing, his eyes wide with panic and pain. Morse’s head throbbed viciously and he could feel Adam’s delicate fingers on his jaw, tilting his face in search of injuries. “Morse, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-” _

_ “Get away from me.” Nausea rolled in his stomach and Morse shoved Adam away as he hauled him to his feet, gathering the strength to manage standing on his own. In spite of the pain, he forced himself to be resilient and stand on his own leaning heavily against the bannister, refusing to let Adam touch him. “John-” _

_ “Apparently John isn’t who we thought he was, Morse.” Adam winced and his hand flew to his shoulder, pressing into the shirt. “I didn’t mean for-” _

_ “What ever happened to the law? To justice?” Morse’s words tasted as bloody as they sounded and he wondered, distantly, if he’d bitten something in his mouth as he fell.  _

_ Lomas stared at him, incredulous. “Bloody hell, Morse, you sound like a copper. This is justice.” _

_ “No, it’s murder!” Morse shook his head. “You killed a man, Adam. You killed an innocent-” _

_ “He was far from innocent.” Lomas tried to assure him, reaching for him again. “This isn’t about me escaping punishment, this is about protecting his name. It’s better this way. Better they don’t know. Better Eva doesn’t know. You can’t tell anybody about this, Morse. Do you understand?” _

_ It should have been easy for him to say yes. It should have been easy for him to believe what they were saying. There were over a dozen things in the room upstairs that would prove John was a traitor, and the knife wound on Adam’s shoulder certainly didn’t help, but Morse couldn’t accept it. Warlow had been his only friend in Birgelen. He gave him crosswords from his newspapers, even in Berlin. John sang terrible pub songs when he was drunk and hummed when he was sober. He went on runs in the morning so he could see the sun come up. He sent letters or gifts to his wife nearly every week. He was loyal and he was kind. He was a friend.  _

_ John Warlow was many things, but he wasn’t the kind of man to sell intelligence.  _

_ In the face of evidence, that belief was enough to render it all irrelevant.  _

_ And he was the only one who seemed to hold it. Contra mundum, once again.  _

_ “No. I don’t understand.” Morse grit his teeth staring down Lomas with courage he didn’t think he had. He was wounded, and it went far deeper than just his skin and bones. He’d trusted Lomas. Maybe even loved him at some point. And then to see he was capable of- of this? “So I guess that means you have to kill me too, doesn’t it?” _

_ “Morse-” _

_ “Doesn’t it?!” _

_ “No!” Adam shouted, eyes wide. “No! God, no!” _

_ “Then stop this.” Morse said evenly, meeting those green eyes, hoping to see something else behind them than the man capable of murdering a friend, even by accident. “This doesn’t go any further. We let the military police deal with it.” _

_ He expected more resistance. But Adam just nodded, stepping back. “Alright. We let the military police handle it. I promise.” _

_ Morse let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Good.” _

_ Adam bit his lower lip, looking at Morse with concern. There was something softer to his eyes now, the green less like sharp bottle glass and more like gentle sage. “It’s pointless to ask for forgiveness. But I really am sorry.” _

_ He looked pitiful then, bloody and bruised with only one good arm, and Morse could see the adrenaline high slowly come crashing down around him. But adrenaline on its own wasn’t an excuse. Nothing about this was right.  _

_ “You’re right,” Morse set his jaw firmly. “It is pointless.” _

_ Lomas grimaced but nodded like he understood, making his way back up the stairs as Henry came down in his place. His focus turned to Mikhail and Declan who had come down to see what was going on. A few words were exchanged and Lomas led them further down the hall to talk, hand pressed to the shirt over his wound as he went.  _

_ Morse pushed himself off the bannister he’d been leaning against, hissing in pain as his injuries were agitated. When Henry reached out to help him, Morse didn’t refuse it, trusting him with his weight and letting him help them both up the stairs.  _

_ Auden turned to him when they were halfway up, uncertainty in his eyes. “You haven’t gone Red, have you?” _

_ Morse stopped to stare back at him. “How can you even ask me that, Henry?” _

_ “You just seemed so determined to throw Adam to the wolves when John-” _

_ “You believe him, don’t you?” Morse said with breathless disbelief. “Lomas. You believe him.” _

_ “Morse, you didn’t see what I saw. He had these papers, copies of our teleprints that we sent back to base, everything.” _

_ “That doesn’t mean-” _

_ “And a box full of money under a floorboard.”  _

_ “It could have been planted.” Morse defended. “He could have discovered them and panicked when Lomas came in because he knew what it looked like.” _

_ “If you’re so ready to point the finger at anyone then why not just believe it’s John?” They reached the top of the stairs now. “Occam’s razor, Morse. Surely you’re familiar with it. The simplest explanation is most likely to be the correct one. The evidence is all there, Morse. Why can’t you accept the fact that he’s not the man you thought he was?”  _

_ Because that’s already happened one too many times here.  _

_ “I won’t let you do this to him. For all I know, you’re the one who set him up.” _

_ “With that logic it could be you. Or Adam too.” Henry pointed out, his voice venomous. “He’s the one that killed him, after all.” _

_ “Actually,” Lomas’ shaky voice came from inside John’s room. “I’m not.” _

_ Morse looked sharply to his right to see Adam standing in front of John Warlow. Warlow, who was on his feet, breathing in haggard, rasping breaths as he leveled his knife at the other man. Warlow, who was very much not dead.  _

_ Auden swore and let go of Morse. “What on-” _

_ “Morse,” John said urgently. “Grab his gun or I’ll plunge this knife into Adam’s throat. Now!” _

_ Without thinking, Morse reacted, grabbing the weapon from Henry’s waist, and in that same split second, Warlow dropped the knife. He lunged toward the door and grabbed Morse by the arm, hauling him inside and locking it behind them as Henry began to shout violently.  _

_ Taking the gun from Morse, Warlow advanced on Adam and swung it in a violent arc against his head. Lomas crumpled to the ground, unmoving, and Morse stifled a shout. At least he knew he actually wasn’t going to stab him again.  _

_ John looked moderately pleased with himself. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”  _

_ “Morse, what the hell are you playing at?” Henry pounded on the door, and Morse couldn’t help but wonder the same question, only there was something more pressing at hand.  _

_ John was still alive. _

_ “I don’t understand,” Morse breathed. “I thought-” _

_ “Adam’s good in a fight, I’ll give him that,” John said begrudgingly, massaging his bruised throat. “Smart, too. But he can’t tell if someone’s actually dead or just unconscious” _

_ Morse stared at him in disbelief. “They were going to hang you.” _

_ “Yes, I can see.” John scoffed, grabbing his coat and stowing the gun in one of the pockets. “Adam wouldn’t hear me out, we got into a scrap. In hindsight, stabbing him wasn’t the best way to convince him I wasn’t going to kill him. I can’t hold his reaction against him, but it’s inconvenient now.” At that, he looked down at Adam’s unconscious form. “I’m not a traitor, Morse. Although, from where I stand I think you’re the only person who will believe me when I say that. Thank you for the gun.” _

_ The door shuddered and the wood around the lock began to splinter.  _

_ John threw open the window and stuck his head outside into the pitch black night, squinting as he looked down at the ground. “What’s that, seven, eight metres do you think?” _

_ “Where will you go?” Morse cast a wary look at the door as it began to splinter even further.  _

_ “East Berlin, across the Havel.” John brought his head back inside, expression grave. “This all looks too bad for me to be safe on this side.” _

_ “It’ll look worse if you run.” Morse warned. _

_ John sighed and shook his head. “Lesser of two evils, Morse.” _

_ He didn’t know how the idea came into his head but he suddenly turned and grabbed the makeshift noose Lomas had fashioned out of the sheet, holding it out in front of him. “Running will do you no good if you break an ankle dropping out the window. I’ll lower you down as far as this will go.”  _

_ ——— _

_ It took all of two minutes before John Warlow had successfully escaped and Morse slumped to the floor, his muscles burning and bones protesting from every attempt at movement.  _

_ He’d done the right thing. He was sure of it.  _

_ It was all a bit of a blur from there.  _

_ Henry broke down the door and military police arrived within the hour to detain Morse for aiding a suspected traitor. Adam came to around then, confused and disoriented but alert enough to struggle with an officer as Morse was led away. Auden stood at the bottom of the stairs, remorse written all over his face, but Morse didn’t want to see it. He was fairly certain Auden tried to apologize. But the words meant nothing. They couldn’t erase the damage.  _

_ They couldn’t remove the cuffs from Morse’s wrists or the bullet from John’s back.  _

_ A day passed and Adam came to get him from the makeshift prison at the nearby airbase. It was Adam who spent the past day proving Morse’s innocence, Adam who worked to get him free. Adam who was actually there to retrieve him from where Henry put him. _

_ And it was Adam who told him the news. _

_ That night, John Warlow had been shot and killed by British forces while trying to cross the barrier zone into East Berlin. Auden heard John’s plan through the door and told the RMP everything. Warlow was found the next morning trying to cross the Glienicke Bridge over the Havel River. He fought and they shot him dead.  _

_ Auden had given up more than John’s plan. In doing that, he effectively signed his death warrant. Someone else had pulled the trigger, but it was all Henry’s doing. Morse could never think of it otherwise.  _

_ When he requested to be transferred back to Birgelen to finish out his service, no one tried to stop him.  _

_ He left Henry Auden and Adam Lomas in Berlin with the intention of never seeing either of them again. John Warlow was put in the ground, and Morse tried to bury his own memories twice as deep.  _

But now Mikhail Bulgakov was missing. 

Declan Kane and Henry Auden were dead.

And in one of those buried memories was the person that killed them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: Tempus Fugit
> 
> the action is finally starting to kick off and there's much drama and angst to come. The next chapter is going to be... interesting, to say the least


	8. Tempus Fugit

Morse was beginning to regret his decision to go with Adam once it became clear that he had no intention of actually telling him where they were headed. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but the tyre lever at his foot gave him a little reassurance. Should anything go sideways, he would have to overpower Lomas one way or another and his options were rather limited.

But overpowering Lomas, historically, was apparently not the easiest thing to do. Even with a knife in his shoulder he’d managed to subdue a man much taller and arguably more experienced than he. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Morse, you can cradle it in your arms if it makes you feel any better.” 

“What?”

Adam looked both amused and exasperated. “Tyre lever. I suppose you’re thinking that it’d be useful in a pinch. It's a bit messy for you, though, I’d have thought. You’re not really the type to go clubbing old friends around the head with bits of iron.”

“Is that what we are?” Morse crossed his arms and leaned against the door, looking over at Lomas. “Old friends?”

He shrugged. “If you like. We seem to be in short supply presently.”

Morse knew he was talking about Henry and the reminder made his stomach turn. “You didn’t seem too surprised to see me there.”

“That sounds a bit like an accusation.” Adam noted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I hope you won’t take offense to the fact that I’ve been keeping tabs on you the past couple of years. I knew you were in Oxford and that you were a detective. That’s why it didn’t surprise me too much to see you standing over Henry’s body. In fact, it made sense that it should be you there rather than anyone else.”

“Why have you been keeping tabs on me?” Morse didn’t even bother trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. 

“There’s been no shortage of attempts to recruit you to Special Branch, Morse. I was behind them.” Lomas replied simply, turning back to the road. “We could have used you.”

Morse scoffed. “I’m quite happy where I am.”

“I can see that. What’s her name?” Adam asked, and Morse wasn’t sure if he imagined the hint of jealousy in his voice or not.

“I don’t-”

“You don’t need to deny it, Morse, it’s too obvious.” The corner of his mouth tilted up into something between a smirk and a smile, just like Morse remembered. Lomas noticed the look Morse was giving him and let out an airy laugh. “Oh, come on. You’d never pick that tie. Burgundy? You were chronically allergic to colours last I checked.”

_ That was seven years ago,  _ Morse wanted to retort. Time had passed. Adam didn’t seem to pick up on that. 

Instead, he looked away, turning his gaze to the trees outside the windows. They were getting further out from the city. “His name is Gael.” 

Adam let out a low whistle. “Well then, Morse. Still off the birds I see.”

“There were a few.” He said almost defensively. Why was he getting defensive over that?

“And they just never seemed to work out, right?” Adam arched an eyebrow, looking somewhat amused again. He turned back to the road and propped an elbow up against the window, leaning his head against his free hand. “Women are much too complicated, I never even bothered with them. But you can tell me then, I’m not missing much am I?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” 

“No, you're not having  _ any  _ conversation with me, Morse,” Adam pointed out, casting him an admonishing glance. “We’ve been driving ten minutes and our only topics have been my aversion to the fairer sex and your opinion on that tyre lever as a potential weapon. That’s going to be a problem if we’re going to be working together on Henry’s murder. I  _ want _ you here, but that certainly doesn’t mean I  _ need  _ you.”

_ Charming as ever,  _ Morse thought, exhaling sharply through his nose as he hid his scoff. For at least a minute there was silence except for the humming of the motor and the crunch of gravel and dirt beneath the tyres. When Adam said they needed to take the conversation somewhere private, Morse wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to mean. But he certainly didn’t expect them to drive entirely out of the city. The buildings had long since given way to forest, now petering out into flat fields of grass and grain. 

“Can I ask about  _ him,  _ then?” Adam pressed, breaking the small modicum of peace that had accumulated between them. “Gael. What’s that, Irish? He’s a long way from home.”

Morse shot him an irritated look. “Do you want to stop?”

“I’m just trying to make conver-”

“No,” Morse tapped the window with his knuckles, gesturing out to the wide fields. “I meant the car. Where exactly are we meant to be going?”

Adam sighed and gave a look at their surroundings. “Well, I suppose this is as good a place as any.”

Morse tried not to laugh in disbelief. Lomas had driven them several miles out of the city to a stretch of farmland to have a private conversation. That spoke to a level of paranoia or eccentricity that Morse was not yet familiar with. 

The car idled to a stop, half on the road, half on the grass that led out to a large, razed field with a series of pylons sprouting up from the now barren soil. Sparse copses of trees rose up in the near distance, far enough to be enveloped in a slight haze along with the hills beyond them. It looked like something had certainly grown here once, someone tilled the ground at one time, but those days were gone. A clear path had been cut and maintained to lead toward the nearest pylon for service and Adam carefully backed the car onto it before shutting off the engine. 

He stowed the keys in his pocket and climbed out of the car, stretching his arms up to the sky as Morse shut his door and walked around the vehicle to join Adam on his side. 

With a slight start, Morse realized he’d been here before. On the side of this road, at this exact field. He recognized it as part of Lemuel Oakshott’s land, the old farmer that had directed him and Thursday to Ben Nimmo’s property during the initial Gull case. The land was likely bought up by the GPO sometime in the past three years for the pylons to run through. He doubted that Oakshott was still alive and tending to his fields, the man was old even then, and judging by the rugged, overgrown quality of the land it no longer had a dedicated caretaker. 

A group of crows was perched along one of the beams of the pylon, their stark black figures easily spotted against the light grey sky. They shuffled in place to face the slight breeze head on, feathers ruffling, and Morse saw Adam watching them with a slight smile. His own black hair was swept across his forehead as the wind picked up and he leaned comfortably against the side of the car, crossing his long legs casually like they were doing the most ordinary thing in the world. 

“You must think I’m mad for taking us all the way out here,” Lomas finally spoke, fishing around in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fished a cigarette from the carton and offered it out to Morse who shook his head, much to Lomas’ apparent amusement. Turning his back to the wind, he lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “But, given the week I’ve had, I feel much more comfortable out here, away from prying eyes and ears. That, and I know for a fact we haven’t been followed.”

Morse leaned against the bonnet of the car, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me what happened in London.”

“Oh, good, we’re finally done with the niceties,” Adam said with a touch of sarcasm, but his expression was serious once again. “Well, there’s not much to say, but I assume Henry filled you in on most of the details.”

“Some.” Morse acknowledged. “I think this had to do with what happened to John.”

“Warlow? By all means, go out on a limb, Morse,” Lomas took another drag from his cigarette, pursing his lips to exhale the smoke. “But I think you’ll find that it’s a rather lonely place.”

“What about Declan? And Mikhail?” Morse turned to look at him, wondering what Lomas possessed that permitted him to think that way. “You don’t think it’s connected?”

He wondered if Frazil had come up with the answers he was searching for last night. Hopefully someone at the station would answer his phone if she called while he was out and took the information down. It wasn’t much, but Adam’s colleague, Malahide, could certainly help flesh out the details for Thursday and the others. 

Lomas took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled through slightly pursed lips, the light cloud of tobacco he exhaled disappearing into the air as if it had never been, leaving behind only a trace scent. “Henry certainly thought so. I disagree. I know you don’t want to hear this, Morse, I’m sure your sentiments about this haven’t changed over the years. You always were stubborn like that.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. “John Warlow was a traitor. He made his mistake and it cost him his life. It’s a closed circle. This is another circle. Much the same, but another one nonetheless.”

“No,” Morse said, feeling a heavy sense of resolution settle on his shoulders. “It’s a noose. And you’re walking right into it.” 

If Lomas saw the thinly veiled reference to what he tried to do with Warlow, he showed no sign, instead letting out a disbelieving scoff. “I need you to understand something before we get into this. Henry didn’t kill John, Morse. And I don’t mean that pedantically. John got himself killed for doing what he did. Henry turned him over, and while that certainly precipitated the events that followed, I’m sure he didn’t do it with the intention to bring about that exact outcome.”

“And where do you stand on that?” Morse stowed his hands in his pockets, drawing his shoulders in. “The outcome. It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted him dead.”

_ You were the one that tried to kill him in the first place.  _

“He stabbed me, Morse.” Adam shook his head with an air of exasperation like he was trying to convey a very simple concept to an incredibly unresponsive child. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but I can’t keep explaining myself over and over again. Things got out of hand. We were both a bit out of our heads. John put a knife in my shoulder. I strangled him. What matters is that in the end both of us walked out of that room one way or another.”

Morse was silent, staring at the crows on the pylon as they fluttered their broad black wings and shuffled around along the beam. The blackbirds were much easier to face than the man beside him. 

“They would have executed him anyway,” Adam said gravely, and Morse could hear the echo of the similar justification he gave all those years ago. “Better done by the hands of a friend than the British government. I thought it would have been a mercy. You should understand that. If John hadn’t escaped, Henry wouldn’t have told them to arrest you as his accomplice. All that ensuing drama and chaos could have been avoided.”

“It could have been avoided entirely if they got the right person in the first place.” Morse said pointedly. “Someone is killing us off, Lomas. I fail to see how these instances are unrelated.”

The man shook his head, waving his cigarette in the air. “No, this has to do with Special Branch. There’s a mole in my division-”

“Declan Kane wasn’t Special Branch though, was he?” Morse blinked, frowning at him. “From the way Auden talked about him, he wasn’t the easiest to reach.”

Adam flicked some ash down toward the gravel beneath his feet. “He was police. Scotland Yard. But-”

“Henry told me about the cilly signature,” Morse persisted. “It sounded pretty clear that there were similarities between the messages from your mole and the papers in John’s room, the ones he supposedly typed.”

“Cilly?” Adam looked confused. “What cilly?

“Henry didn’t tell you?” 

He shook his head. “No, he gave me an envelope full of papers, told me to give them a look, but my flat was tipped over before I even had a chance. The buggers knew exactly what they were searching for, took it right out of my safe.”

Morse remembered Henry saying something about Adam’s place being broken into. “He said he gave similar envelopes to Kane and Bulgakov. As I understand it, those are missing as well.”

Lomas crushed his cigarette out under his foot. “Yes, and that poses a major problem considering that on top of those being incredibly crucial pieces of evidence, they also apparently contain information pertinent to national security. It may not look it, but this is wartime.” He paused and looked over to Morse, his green eyes concerned and questioning. “These papers- you don’t have any of them, do you?”

Morse looked down at the ground and shook his head. “We were meant to meet at lunch tomorrow. I think he intended to show me them then. But Doyle-”

“Doyle?” Adam asked sharply, looking surprised. “He dragged  _ Doyle _ into this?”

“I told you, Adam, he thinks-  _ thought-  _ it was one of us.” Morse felt his stomach drop as he corrected his tense, still trying to reconcile the fact that Auden was dead. Up until a day ago he hadn’t even been in Morse’s life anymore. He was there and gone forever within hours. “Whatever this is, it concerns all of us.”

Lomas turned away, running a hand over his face as he moved his lips soundlessly as if muttering to himself. He turned back to Morse after a moment, his expression conflicted. 

“You’re sure about the cilly?” 

Morse nodded. “Henry sounded confident.” 

“So it  _ is _ connected to John.” Adam sighed and lit another cigarette. “Christ. This is a mess. We need to find those papers.” 

“Forensics is going over Henry’s room as we speak,” Morse said. “I’m sure they-”

“They won’t be there.” Adam cut in sharply. “And even so, his aren’t enough, I- we need all of them. They can’t be let loose in the world. Cambridge wasn’t safe and only a fool would think the Soviets haven’t gotten themselves into Oxford by now. Henry gave envelopes to everyone. We need to find yours and Doyle’s before they’re gone.”

Morse turned to stare at him. “His room was completely turned over, you saw it yourself. It’s more than likely the killer took them and left him to die.”

“I can’t afford to believe that.”

Morse tried to come up with a response but each was as argumentative and biting as the last so he tried to move on from the irrational stubbornness. “So who are our suspects? There’s not many of us left.”

Adam exhaled a plume of tobacco smoke. “Bulgakov has made himself scarce. He went missing the same day Declan was killed and my flat was broken into. No one’s seen him since. It’s got to be him.”

It was the easy answer. Mikhail Bulgakov was the Russian among them. It was possible he was lying about his severed allegiances from the very start to ingratiate himself within the ranks of the British Army. Aside from him, all that was left were Soren Doyle and the man standing next to him. That was a disconcerting thought to say the very least. 

“No stone unturned, Morse. Not until we find who’s killing us.” Adam stubbed his last cigarette out against the side of the car and let it fall into the dirt before kicking some over it. He glanced over at Morse with an apprehensive look, leaning back against the side of the car. “But you have no earthly reason to trust my interpretations, and I yours. Although, I’d like to think the reason we’re even still talking now is that we’ve ruled each other out as suspects.” 

“Should I?” Morse stepped away from the car, his hands deep in his pockets as he made a few paces, dry grass crunching under his soles. “Rule you out?”

The wind carded through his hair and sent a few strands of Lomas’ own falling across his forehead in a dark sweep. There was something so shockingly familiar about it that Morse forgot how to breathe for a moment, brief flickers of memories intercepting any other rational thought. He wanted to rule Adam out. He wanted to be able to trust him. The road they once walked wasn’t the smoothest, but it hadn’t ended at the sharp edge of a cliff like with Henry. 

Maybe there was still some trust to be salvaged. Trust, and nothing else. Best leave the rest buried and forgotten. 

Adam met Morse’s gaze calmly, his eyes clear as bottle glass in the light, mesmerizing and steady. “I think,” he said sincerely, pushing himself off the vehicle to take a step toward Morse. “That it doesn’t matter what I say. You should do what you want. Trust me or don’t, that decision is entirely yours. All I want is for this to end as peacefully as possible, and, preferably, with the both of us alive.”

Morse looked up at the sky and sighed, but naturally the clouds above offered no sage assistance. One of the crows had abandoned their perch on the pylon and soared overhead with a small cry before disappearing into the distant tree line. He stretched his shoulders back and sighed again before looking back at Adam who hadn’t budged in the slightest, still watching him with what was now verging on a hopeful sort of gaze. 

“I suppose-” Morse said slowly, half praying he was making the right decision, half still hesitant to even make it. “- it’s going to be hard to work together if we’re constantly concerned about one of us putting a knife in the other’s back.”

\------

They were only a few streets away from the station when it happened. 

Adam seemed in higher spirits on the drive back, and despite his failed attempts to drag Morse into conversation, even with his persistent questions about Gael, he appeared more optimistic than before. Morse couldn’t quite figure out what was behind that change in demeanor. There were so many things to be concerned about. No one had spoken to Soren Doyle yet. Mikhail Bulgakov was supposedly hiding out in Oxford. The documents were still missing.

It was likely that Declan Kane was killed not only for the papers he was given, but to bury what he discovered after reading them. Henry Auden, of course, was killed to eradicate the man hell bent on investigating the traitor. The only reason Adam Lomas was alive was because he was in another country when his flat was burgled. And according to him, he hadn’t even read the papers.

Morse wondered if Auden had gotten around to Doyle. Anyone Auden reached out to was in danger because of the papers, but Morse didn’t have any. All he had was a rushed conversation in an alley and some cryptic nonsense over the phone. What if the documents were already gone? What if the killer- Bugakov, possibly- took them after subduing Auden and leaving him to die? If so, then didn’t he get what he wanted? Did that mean the rest of them were safe? 

The answer to that question came in the form of a grey car hurtling out from a side street and slamming into their vehicle. 

It struck the side of the bonnet, the metal and glass crunching and shattering horrendously as both cars spun out of control and into opposite sides of the road. Morse’s head cracked against the window, pain flaring across his temple as he desperately tried to find something to hold onto. Horns blared and traffic came to a complete standstill as the vehicles screeched to a halt and Adam swore violently, his features overtaken by sheer panic. 

Before either of them could react, two figures swiftly flanked their car and Adam fumbled for the locks on the doors, reaching over Morse to keep them closed in, but apparently their attackers had other ideas. 

The windows shattered under the force of the batons they wielded and gloved hands reached in to grab them. Morse felt himself be seized under the arms and he shouted in protest, trying to wrestle himself free. The baton his assailant held was slammed into the side of his head and pure darkness cut over his vision for a few moments, rendering him limp as the pulses of pain in his skull doubled exponentially. A gasp tore itself from his throat and he was dragged through the broken window, shards of glass digging into him before he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground, his ears ringing and mouth tasting faintly of blood. There was no chance for him to even try to move before a foot planted itself in his chest, sending the air rushing from his lungs and pain lancing across his ribs. 

“Morse!” Lomas was shouting wildly, kicking and writhing as he was pulled from the vehicle in the same manner as Morse. The name seemed to echo in Morse’s ears, reverberating senselessly, and he distantly recognized it as his own as he grit his teeth, fighting to stay awake. “MORSE!”

Morse could see Adam’s body hit the ground from beneath the car. He could see the kicks land in Adam’s stomach, he could hear the muffled groans as he held in his cries. Morse dug his hands into the rough ground, trying to push himself up, his mind screaming at him to move, but a foot planted itself between his shoulder blades and forced him back down. 

Sirens sounded in the distance. Of course. The station wasn’t far. Someone must have found a phone and called it in.

Adam was on his feet now and Morse heard the sounds of fighting from the other side of the vehicle. Count on Lomas to hold his own in a fight. 

For a brief moment it seemed like the tide was changing in their favour. 

Then, a hand fisted itself in Morse’s hair and pulled hard, forcing a cry from his throat as his neck was bent back at a painful angle. There was no mistaking the cold sharpness of the knife that pressed itself right above his pulsepoint. 

Morse held his breath, not daring to move. 

The hand tightened in his hair and he couldn't help but gasp, eyes prickling from the pain.

When his attacker spoke, it took a moment for Morse to realize what was being said to him. After all, he hadn’t heard Russian in years. 

_ “Where are the papers?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Escalation


	9. Escalation

Thursday took a draw from his pipe as he looked over the photographs from the break in at the Lamb and Flag, trying to make heads or tails of the rather confusing narrative shared by Sergeant Strange as they both gathered in Bright’s office. The chief superintendent reliably lit a cigarette as he sat back at his desk, casting a glance over the photos spread out across the wood but awarding them little interest as his focus turned back to the sergeant. 

“The landlord didn’t leave until late last night, about half twelve by his account,” Strange explained, standing just over Thursday’s shoulder as he read out from his notebook. “When he went in this morning to open up he found the place already unlocked and the inside completely smashed up. Tables turned over, boards torn up from the walls and floor, it was a right mess by all accounts. The thing is, he reported it as a burglary since the till was empty, but it doesn’t seem to entirely be the case anymore.”

“No?” Bright frowned behind his plume of tobacco smoke. “How’s that?”

Strange shifted on his feet. “Well, sir, there wasn’t much in the till to take. Only enough to make change for early customers. The reason the landlord was there so late last night was because he was counting up the contents of the office safe to take to the bank, there was far more money in there to be taken, but it appears that it’s all accounted for. The rest of the office was turned over, shelves and cabinets gone through, but the safe hadn’t even been touched by the looks of it.” The sergeant scratched the side of his head thoughtfully, closing his notebook and stowing it in his pocket. “It’s no ordinary burglary. Whoever did it went through far too much trouble to only walk out with a few pounds. Nothing else is missing. Whatever the burglars were looking for, it doesn’t seem to have been taken.”

Thursday looked at the photo he had in his hand. True to Strange’s word, full planks of wood had come up from the floors and off the walls, as if the burglars had been searching for something beneath them. It was far too much for one person to do quickly and quietly in the dead of night and completely unnecessary given what little money they actually made out with. Strange was right. Whatever they were after, it wasn’t money. The office safe wasn’t a great hulking thing by any means. One man of reasonable strength equipped with a trolley would find no trouble in transporting the whole thing clean out of the building if he so pleased. 

“Insurance swindle, do you think? Hm?” Bright suggested over his cigarette, flicking ash into the ornate glass tray on his desk. There’d been a story about that ashtray, Thursday vaguely remembered. A gift from someone important who knew someone even more important and it was a great honour, so on and so on, Bright had regaled rather proudly like a bird preening its own ego. Feathers. Whichever. “The landlord could be lying. Perhaps he stayed late last night to do that all himself.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Thursday said with a practiced patience. “Mr. Milligan is a decent man running a good business. I find it hard to believe he would do something like this for financial gain.”

“Yes, of course, Thursday, you’re right.” Bright agreed amicably, dashing his cigarette out. “Any other theories, then?”

“Well,” the inspector set the photograph back on the desk, looking pointedly toward the door. “There is one.”

Somewhere down the hall was Mr. Malahide, Adam Lomas’ colleague, going through the evidence brought back from Henry Auden’s room at the Primrose Inn. Auden’s diary which contained the phone number to his flat in London was retrieved from the scene and Malahide took it upon himself to call the man’s wife. But that wasn’t the only thing he was doing. Every single paper found at the scene was piled into a single box which Malahide was prohibiting anyone to touch, citing national security concerns and so on. Seeing as he essentially outranked every man and woman in the station, there wasn’t much to be done other than be silently irritated at the man. 

Coincidence was not a luxury Thursday could entertain at this point in time. Morse said something about meeting his friend, the dead man, Henry Auden at the Flag only yesterday. That place had been turned over within hours of his death, perhaps even closer, though that was for DeBryn to say once he finished his autopsy. While the doctor cut up the body, the inspector was left to dissect the remains of this crime scene and see what he could glean from it. He was sure there was a connection. 

And so far, that connection was Morse. Morse, Auden, and this mysterious grey car. 

“It’s out of our hands, Thursday,” Bright shook his head. “The man won’t speak with us. Until this Lomas character comes back with Morse there’s little we can do. We simply don’t have all the facts at our disposal.”

There was a knock at the door frame and George Fancy stood there, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he held up a slip of paper before him. “Actually, sirs, we do have some.”

“Constable?” Bright prompted, frowning. 

Fancy entered the room, coming to stand next to Strange, looking positively small in comparison to the sergeant’s larger stature. “I just got off the blower with Miss Frazil, apparently Morse gave her a call last night and asked her to look into some things with her friends in London. I answered the phone at his desk and took the message down. Anyway, according to Miss Frazil, Morse was inquiring about the obituaries of two men, Declan Kane and Mikhail-” George squinted at his own handwriting. “-Bulgakov.”

“What’s that, Russian?” Bright arched an eyebrow.

“Looks to be.” Fancy nodded. “Declan Kane died a few nights ago, he was a DI with Scotland Yard. He was murdered in his flat, it was practically front page news. He had a few commendations listed and it said he was with the 13th Signals Regiment in Germany a few years back. Isn’t that where Morse said he knew that Lomas bloke? From Signals?”

“And Auden. The dead man,” Thursday clarified for Bright before he could ask. “Any joy with this Russian?”

The constable shook his head. “None. Miss Frazil put some feelers out but it’s all very quiet on that front.”

“Special Branch, most likely,” Strange surmised. “No surprise there.”

Thursday frowned. If Morse had been inquiring about obituaries then he must have known, or at least expected, one or both of the men to be dead. He knew something was happening before Henry Auden was killed. Was this something the man had told Morse yesterday at The Flag? 

That made four, then. Four men connected by Royal Signals. Five, counting Bulgakov, although information on him was sparse. And two of them were dead, one on their ground. 

Morse and Lomas had some explaining to do once they turned up. 

“Any word on our ghost car?” Thursday asked, hoping, but not anticipating anything. 

Fancy half shrugged. “Shirley’s checking recent traffic reports to see if there’s anything about a grey vehicle matching the one we saw but there’s nothing so far.” 

As if summoned by her name, Trewlove appeared in the doorway, joining the group that had accumulated in Bright’s office. 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Trewlove looked worried, her voice infused with urgency. “A report’s just come through the incident room, there’s been a vehicle collision a few streets away and it looks like one of them was the car you asked me to look out for. There’s officers on the scene right now, they just sent for an ambulance. Apparently one of the men in the other car was Morse.”

Thursday felt the cold vice of dread seize him around the throat but he managed the next words out. “And the car?”

Trewlove shook her head. “Fled the scene. They-”

Just then, a car horn started blaring from outside of the window. Bright clapped his hands to his ears and Thursday rose, drawing the shades aside to look down at the street below. 

Something unpleasant unfurled in his chest and he held back a snarl as he took in the sight.  _ Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  _

Parked along the pavement just in front of the nick was that damned grey car. There was no mistaking it, not with the front slightly caved in from the crash and an ominous smear of crimson running across the bonnet. Blood. Whose it was, Thursday didn’t care to guess, but his stomach was in knots with worry as he gripped the window sill with enough force to make the wood creak ever so slightly beneath his hands. 

His only thought was  _ Morse.  _

“They’ve some nerve coming here,” Thursday growled, and before he knew what he was doing he rushed from the room, sharp footsteps sounding behind him being the only indication he wasn’t going alone. 

If he took a moment to think, he would’ve had the sense to grab a gun, a set of handcuffs, anything. Thursday ran out of the nick armed with nothing but his anger and his fists, the worry for his bagman changed by some emotional alchemy into searing rage as he shoved a constable aside and tore the doors open. 

Trewlove caught the door and hurried out after him, Strange not far behind as they hit the front steps and rushed down to the pavement, coming to a stop just a few paces from the wretched vehicle and its occupants.

The car was just sitting there, the engine humming as it idled, the men within clearly waiting for their audience to arrive. Thursday could only get a clear look at the man in the passenger seat through the open window. Oddly, Thursday thought he recognized him. He was familiar in the sense that Thursday was sure he must’ve crossed paths with him on the street once or twice before but only a fleeting impression was made.

The driver was another mystery. He was mostly shielded by the passenger’s body, but when Thursday looked closer he noticed he was wearing a black mask to conceal his identity. 

“What are they doing?” Trewlove stared at the unmoving occupants of the vehicle, her grip tightening on the handgun she held in front of her. Thursday felt very glad at least she had the sense to get her hands on a weapon, thought it was a wonder how she did it so quickly. The constable never ceased to amaze. “What are they waiting for?”

Thursday didn’t have an answer for her. 

“Police!” Strange shouted, trying to get their attention. “Come out of the vehicle with your hands in the air!”

A sound came from inside the car, drifting through the open window. It sounded like-

Laughter. 

Then, without warning, the driver leaned over and shot at the officers, firing off a single round that shattered the moment of tense silence.

“Get down!” Thursday moved quicker than he thought he’d be able to at his age, grabbing Trewlove by the shoulders and pushing the both of them out of the way as she cried out and her gun fell to the ground. It took a moment for Thursday to realize that it wasn’t a cry of surprise, but a cry of pain as the constable’s legs buckled and she fell to the ground, her hands flying to her hip. 

The blood barely showed through the dark uniform but her pale hands came away red and shaking. 

“Constable-” Thursday’s voice was choked with fear and he looked back at the car quickly before turning to Strange, barking, “Get an ambulance, sergeant! Go!”

“H-  _ hurts-!”  _ Trewlove hissed as Thursday pressed his hands over the wound, feeling the sick warmth of blood spread across his fingers. A flicker of a memory crossed his mind and suddenly he was back in the living room of the Coke-Norris house three years ago, trying to stop the bleeding from the bullet wound in Morse’s hip. Morse had been fine then, Trewlove would be fine now, surely-

“You’re going to be just fine, constable,” Thursday tried to assure her, but the second he tried to move her she cried out in agony and he was forced to stop. He didn’t like them being out on the pavement like this, so close to the shooter, vulnerable, but it was clear anything he tried would just jar the wound further. 

Another shot rang out and the bullet buried itself in the side of the station, brick crumbling from the force of the impact. Strange was shouting something at the officers that were rushing outside but Thursday could hear none of it as he desperately tried to both shield and move Trewlove. Her eyes were tight with pain but she still had the energy to bat the inspector’s hands away, reaching out for her fallen gun. She took unsteady aim at the vehicle and fired, shattering one of the back windows but widely missing her intended target. 

The passenger door opened and the driver shoved the other man out, his body spilling over the pavement in a tangle of stiff, unresponsive limbs. A small book was thrown out beside him and the door was quickly pulled shut, the engine revving once before the car tore off with a squeal of tyres. This time, one of their own was right on its tail, sirens flashing as the two raced down the street. 

“Shirl!” Fancy shouted somewhere nearby and within moments he was at her side, paling at the sight of the blood, but he quickly muscled a confident expression on his face and held one of her hands reassuringly. 

“I’m-  _ fine-”  _ Trewlove grit her teeth, placing her free hand against the wound and attempting to sit up with little success. She winced and slumped back to the ground, breathing heavily through her nose and pressing her lips shut to keep from crying out. 

“You’ve been shot, constable,” Thursday said gently, an unnecessary reminder. “Don’t worry, an ambulance is already on its way.”

First Morse, now Trewlove. Special Branch be damned, whoever their killer was had the blood of two officers on his hands. He had no idea what state his bagman was in, and Trewlove had a bullet in her leg. This was personal now. 

Officers swarmed the man pushed out of the car, still unmoving on the pavement. Thursday rose to his feet and crossed the short distance until he was standing over the body, now able to see what he hadn’t before. 

The man seemed the academic type, possibly a professor at one of the colleges. It would certainly explain why he was familiar to Thursday. Their paths must have crossed before. And now they had for the final time as his glassy, unseeing eyes gazed upward at the inspector, the whites sullied by a line of reddish brown. 

He was dead. Dead before he was even pushed from the vehicle. Dead for more than a few hours, if his eyes were anything to go by. He’d seen enough eyes like that, endured enough commentary from Dr. DeBryn to pick up a thing or two. 

The book that accompanied him had a hole shot through the middle of the cover, but the title and author were still visible, the first name circled in dark ink and a line drawn through the last. 

_ The Present Age.  _ Written by Søren Kierkegaard. 

\------

Morse lightly touched the bandage that wound itself around his throat and winced as his fingers prodded the cut beneath it. The knife hadn’t sliced deep, just drew a long, thin line of blood across his neck as a very tangible threat. He remembered the sick warmth of the blood just before the final blow to his head rendered him unconscious and nearly shuddered. There were too many ways that could have ended badly for him. For both of them. He’d been much too surprised to wake up safe and in a hospital cot with Gael’s concerned face hovering over him. 

Now, he was sitting upright on the edge of the cot, surrounded by damp and bloody bits of cloth as his wounds were cleaned and dressed by much kinder hands than the ones who inflicted them. 

“You’re lucky,” Gael said gently, sticking the last bit of plaster over the cut on Morse’s brow. “This could’ve been a fracture if they’d hit you any harder.”

That sent his stomach into knots and he swallowed with some difficulty. There were too many near misses for Morse’s liking. Nearly a fracture. Nearly a slit throat. Nearly not sitting here right now. 

_ And for what? _

Words swam through Morse’s mind, disconnected and hazy as they struggled to assemble themselves into any coherent form of memory. So much had happened at once that it was all a bit of a blur and with his adrenaline long since crashed he was trying to keep his nerves from flying apart each time the attack replayed in his mind. The crushing sound of metal and glass. Adam’s cries of pain. His own. The sharpness of a knife against his throat. Just the thought of it was enough to make him taste bile. 

Both attackers had spoken in Russian, but their accents were far off the mark. The language was spoken with an unpracticed tongue, exactly what Mikhail Bulgakov was not. Whatever Lomas thought, it wasn’t Bulgakov who attacked them. It was possible that he just arranged it, sent other men to do his dirty work. That was an unpalatable thought to entertain, the idea that they were no longer dealing with just one man but multiple. How far did this all go?

Morse cleared his throat uncomfortably. “There was another man with me. Adam Lomas. Is he alright?”

“Bruised ribs, I think.” Gael sat next to him on the cot, their shoulders just barely brushing, but the near contact was enough to settle Morse’s nerves considerably. The familiarity of his presence, even the traces of his aftershave in the air between them was comfort enough. “But he should be just fine. Last I saw he was heading downstairs to surgery. Said he needed to speak to someone.” 

He’d been avoiding Gael’s eyes as much as he could. The blatant worry in them was enough to make Morse feel riddled with guilt for causing him such concern, no matter how irrational that guilt was.

“Morse,” Gael said softly, taking one of Morse’s hands in his own, a gentle urgency in his voice. “I think it’s about time you told me what’s been going on.”

“That makes two of us.” Thursday’s voice said from nearby. Morse looked up to see the inspector crossing the ward, the hard expression on his face softening into something like relief when he glanced over his bagman and the nurse beside him. “You’re alright, are you? Had me worried sick.” 

Morse managed a thin smile. “I’m fine, sir.” It was only half a lie, no harm in it. 

Thursday looked to Gael like he was expecting the nurse to contradict that statement, but thankfully he just dipped his head in a slight nod. Letting out a sigh, he eased himself down into the chair beside the bed, flexing his hands out across his knees. It was only then that Morse saw the dried blood in the creases of his fingers and embedded beneath his nails. 

“Your man Lomas has got some nerve.” Thursday said angrily before Morse could even begin to ask. “Trewlove’s in surgery now, he barged into the operating theatre just to ask her questions and ran off to make a phone call. It could have waited.”

Morse felt his heart jump into his throat.  _ Trewlove.  _ “Is she going to be alright?”

It wasn’t until Thursday nodded that Morse felt like he could breathe again. 

“This is getting out of hand, Morse,” The inspector’s expression was grave and he looked down at his poorly scrubbed hands, the blood that still remained. Trewlove’s blood. “Two dead bodies, two wounded police officers, and an injured Special Branch agent. It’s a hell of a day.”

_ Two bodies?  _ Morse frowned, swallowing thickly. “Who else is dead?”

Thursday reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin book, the pages stained with blood, the front graffitied with ink. There was a bullet hole in the centre of the cover, the paper burned and torn around it. Morse accepted the book with his free hand, tightening the other around Gael’s as he looked over what he’d been given. _The Present Age._ By _Soren_ Kierkegaard. Someone thought they were being clever. 

Morse stifled a cough and returned the book to Thursday, suddenly feeling very unclean just by touching it. “He’s dead?”

“This means something to you?” It wasn’t a negative. 

Warlow. Kane. Auden. Doyle. All gone. 

_ And then there were three.  _

Morse nodded stiffly. The grief was all too brief, leaving behind nothing but a faint trace of numbness. “Soren. Soren Doyle.” What was it that Henry said about him? “He’s a maths professor at Lovelace College. Lives in… Summertown. Auden told me about him yesterday. I think they intended to meet. Maybe they did. I don’t know.”

“Well, it looks like the same people who got you and Lomas decided to drop his body off in front of the station after clipping Constable Trewlove.” Thursday stowed the book back into his pocket. “If we’re going to find who’s doing this, you need to be straight with us. So, talk.”

“Please,” Gael added for him, his insistence much kinder than that of the inspector. 

So Morse did. He started with the night in Berlin, right when it all began. Explained everything that went wrong. Lomas. Auden. Doyle. Bulgakov. Kane. Warlow. Him. Auden’s sudden appearance after seven years and the grave message he brought with him. The copies of the damning papers that kept vanishing. Lomas’ prime suspect. Everything up until the attack in the street. He omitted what he needed, a large amount of that pertaining to Adam and the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t something he needed to share. That was his to forget. 

It was only when he finished did he feel the weight fall from his shoulders to make room for a new burden. One that was shaped like a target on his back. 

\------

“Who’s this now?” Dr. DeBryn asked a bit acerbically as a new body was rolled past on a cart just as he was slipping on his gloves to begin the autopsy on the man from the Primrose Inn. He’d barely even had the time to begin the trying process of removing the clothes from the stiff corpse, unable to spend time waiting for the limbs to become more pliant. Thankfully, it wasn’t much of a problem since the limbs weren’t bent at any difficult angles like some often were. Little mercies. 

The mortuary attendant- Mr. Adlhoch- gave a shrug and arranged the cart so it was flush with the wall, the long, black body bag hardly jostling with the movement. “Dunno, Doc. No I.D. off the body just yet. Inspector Thursday said to bring him straight to you. He wants time and cause real urgent-like. Says it’s to do with that fella right there.” At that, he gestured to the body on the table in front of DeBryn.

Auden, the name was. That’s what Morse said. Henry Auden. 

DeBryn breathed sharply through his nose, persevering as he worked off the unbuttoned shirt and jacket in the same go. It was an awkward process and Adlhoch stepped over to help him carefully manoeuvre the body into more manageable positions as they went. Eventually, the clothes were done away with and folded on a nearby cart. DeBryn noticed something dark on the left forearm but didn’t give it too much of a look. Better he save that for the examination.

The young attendant covered the corpse’s middle section with a sheet to preserve modesty while DeBryn dragged an arm across his forehead to divest himself of the thin layer of perspiration on his brow. “Well, unless Inspector Thursday plans on donning a pinny and getting his hands dirty he’ll have to compromise. If quick results are what he wants, have Dr. Carruthers start on this new chap. I already have an engagement with Mr. Auden here.”

Adlhoch nodded dutifully, taking hold of the cart again and beginning to wheel it back from the room. “Righto, Doc. I’m sure Carruthers’ll be pleased to have something to do.”

The pathologist allowed himself a dubious smirk, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at Adlhoch. “You’re sure we’re talking about the same Carruthers?”

“Only being polite, Doc.” The young man chuckled and departed, corpse in tow. The wheels of the cart rattled and squeaked worryingly against the tiles and DeBryn made a mental note to remind someone the bolts were in need of tightening on that one. The last thing they needed was a repeat of the Mrs. Maguire Incident. But that was a problem for another time. 

“Right then, Mr. Auden,” DeBryn muttered, taking up his pen and clipboard to begin the external observation of the body. He’d start with whatever it was on the left forearm- a tattoo in need of logging, likely. “Let’s see what you’ve got for us.”

Once he began looking at it properly, however, he noticed that it wasn’t quite a tattoo. Someone, Mr. Auden himself, most likely, had written a short sequence of letters down his forearm, ending at his wrist. It looked to have been done with a sharp tipped fountain pen, the nib having cut through the skin in the process. DeBryn looked all over the body for anything else like it but aside from his injuries there was nothing more than some moles and a birthmark on the small of his back that was shaped a bit like Sweden. The letters started back at him, begging to be noticed, dark and ragged and insistent. They’d been hidden like a secret, but now in death the message was laid bare for him to see.

DT|WMQ|MSMI

Seized by some strange instinct, the doctor photographed and charted it, then took out his notepad and meticulously printed them across a blank page. DeBryn tore the sheet out and folded it in his pocket. He had some inkling as to who the message was meant for. There was so little he could do for the dead but treat them with the dignity they deserved. Who was he to deny Henry Auden this favour. 

A moment passed. He reached for a sponge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Yet Each Man Kills
> 
> I'm sorry about Trewlove, I really am! I promise there's a reason for it, but that likely won't be explained for a few more chapters yet...
> 
> Also, in regards to the cipher on Auden's forearm (this is where I get a bit cheeky as a writer ha) the key is actually in a previous chapter, hidden for you readers to find if you're keen on it. It's a very simple keyword substitution cipher, you can google how they work if you'd like to give it a go. Be warned of the spoiler the answer may contain, though! Don't worry, Morse will solve it in his own time (end of chapter twelve I'd wager, just cos it's convenient for my plot points)


	10. Yet Each Man Kills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for depictions of blood in the third portion of the chapter

They waited until Trewlove was out of surgery. It didn’t take much longer before the constable was wheeled into the ward and placed carefully onto the cot across from Morse, blinking widely and slightly dazed from whatever the doctors gave her for the pain. He felt relief course through him at the sight of her, glad her injuries hadn’t been too substantial. It was hard not to blame himself for what happened despite his inability to ascertain his exact fault. Morse couldn’t very well blame Auden, the man was dead. But it was him who brought this fight to Oxford. And it was far from over. 

After all, Morse and Lomas were still alive. Dead men walking, but alive all the same. 

“It was a relatively simple procedure, it’s lucky the shot got off clean and far from her organs.” the sawbones explained to Inspector Thursday, gesturing behind him to Lomas who Morse saw staring right back at him with those pale green eyes of his. Something about the look unsettled him and he wished Adam would stop, but he wasn’t exactly going to request that out loud. Adam kept staring. The surgeon kept talking. “-just like I told Mr. Lomas here. We’ve given Constable Trewlove something for the pain, but I’m recommending we keep her under observation here for at least a week. With a bed rest and medication I should think she’ll be on her feet in no time- with crutches in the beginning, of course-”

“Nonsense,” Trewlove scoffed lightly, already trying to push herself up on her elbows even as the nurses were trying to get IV lines into her arm. There was already a glimmer of fight in her vaguely unfocused eyes. “I’m fine, sir, just get me a wheelchair-”

“You won’t feel the same once the morphine’s worn off, constable.” Gael admonished gently, standing aside to let the other nurses ease her back down. Morse smiled a little at her tenacity, unable to help himself. 

‘Almost as bad as Morse,’ he thought he heard Thursday mutter before the inspector glanced over at his bagman like it was intended for him to hear. 

At hearing Gael speak, Lomas tilted his head, smiling a bit oddly. But perhaps that was just due to the hand shaped bruise that wrapped around his jaw. His injuries were far less visible than Morse’s, but there was a stiffness to the way he carried himself, likely as a result of his bruised ribs. “Is that an Irish accent I hear, nurse?”

Morse felt an uncomfortable warmth spread up the back of his neck and he looked away from Adam, half mortified. He’d asked in the car, hadn’t he?

_ ‘Gael. What’s that, Irish?’ _

Oh, this could  _ not  _ be happening. 

“That’s right,” Gael nodded, smiling patiently. 

“Adam Lomas,” Adam introduced himself, looking rather pleased about something. He extended a hand to shake and it took all Morse had not to pull his arm away before Adam was already wrapping his equally slim hand around Gael’s. “You must be Gael, then.”

“Yes, I am.” Gael looked confused, even as he shook the man’s hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“No, we haven’t,” Adam agreed, releasing his hand. “Morse mentioned you, that’s all.”

There was a clear question in his eyes as Gael glanced over at Morse, a smile half formed on his lips. Morse suddenly became very interested in the tiles on the floor, averting his gaze as Gael turned back to Adam. “Lomas. That’s right. He mentioned you as well.”

“Oh?” Adam sounded interested. “Nothing bad I hope.”

Thursday coughed, interrupting. “Gentlemen, might I suggest you continue your introductions at another time. I think we ought to get back to the nick, let Constable Trewlove get some well earned rest.”

Morse tried not to look too grateful at the interruption and gave Gael a small smile which was quickly returned, but there was still a painful amount of worry in his eyes. He wanted to promise Gael that he’d be safer, that everything would be just fine. He wanted to promise a lot of things. But he didn’t want Adam to hear. 

He hadn’t pegged Lomas as the jealous type, but what other motivation could he have had for that stunt just then? It felt too much like he was messing with Morse, saying all that to Gael just because he  _ could.  _ Maybe he meant nothing by it. Maybe he was just genuinely curious about who Gael was. Morse was unsettled nonetheless. 

As he turned to follow Thursday and Lomas out, Trewlove batted away the hand of one of the nurses and reached out toward him. “Morse. I want to talk to Morse. Privately.” She added, looking at the nurses around her rather pointedly. 

Morse frowned, unsure of what there was to discuss between them, but he turned around, looking back at Thursday. “I’ll meet you two downstairs, sir.”

The inspector nodded and adjusted his hat. “Don’t be long.”

Adam cast one last glance at Gael, his eyes traveling up and down, giving him a thorough once over before he smiled and gave a small wave, wordlessly following Thursday out of the ward. 

The nurses stepped away from Trewlove once they finished getting her situated and headed back to the station across the room, only Gael remaining as he stood beside Morse, much closer than he had been a moment ago. 

“He knows we’re together.” Morse muttered, putting his back to Trewlove to face Gael, giving them the closest thing to privacy they could manage in an open hospital ward. His head was dipped slightly, the words half spoken at Gael’s collarbones. If he took a step closer Gael would be able to wrap his arms around him and Morse was sorely tempted to close the distance and seek out the comfort of his embrace. The morning felt too far away, like it was composed of scenes from another life. It was only hours ago they’d been together in bed, sneaking in lazy kisses as they waited for the alarm to go off. Too much had happened since then, none of it good. “That’s all I said.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about what you told him,” Gael assured him quietly, staring after the swinging doors Lomas and Thursday exited through. There was an odd look on his face and he shook his head, running a hand over his face. “I just don’t like him, Morse. There’s something off about that man.”

Morse snorted slightly, tying to sound convincing. “Adam? He’s harmless.”

“That’s not what you told us earlier,” Gael whispered, his blue eyes hardening into captivating sheets of glass. “He pushed you down a flight of stairs. He could have broken your neck, that’s not  _ harmless-” _

“Gael.” Morse put a hand on his chest to stop him as Gael’s words began to come quicker, his voice elevating with anger. He could feel the other man’s heart beating beneath his palm, pulse elevated but slowing as he steadied himself. There was something reassuring about that rhythm beneath his fingertips and Morse wished they could stay like that for a moment longer but a passing doctor looked their way and he let his hand fall. “It was an accident. And a long time ago. We need his help to stop all of this.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Gael really did look apologetic and Morse wished he wouldn’t. There was nothing for him to be sorry for. He cleared his throat, looking over his shoulder toward the nurse’s station behind him. “I suppose we’d both better get back to work, then. I’m with paramedics for the rest of the day.”

Struck by a sudden urge, Morse reached out for his hand, brushing the backs of their fingers together ever so slightly. No one would see it. Just for them. “I love you.”

Even small, Gael’s smile was bright enough to light a room and warm Morse’s entire body. “I love you too. Be safe, will you?”

Morse gave him a crooked smile as he backed away, saying the same words he’d said in response to that ever since they met. “You know me.”

“I do.” Gael replied, walking backwards, his eyes remaining on Morse for as long as they could. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

He finally turned away and Morse stared after him a moment longer before going to Trewlove, unable to miss the small smile on her face as she looked at him. She’d clearly been watching the whole interaction.

“He’s sweet,” Trewlove tried to adjust her position on the cot and winced sharply, hand flying to her bandaged hip beneath the sheets. The IV lines wound around her other arm, blood and morphine coursing in, and Morse tried not to look at the former as he dragged a chair over to her bedside. “You’re lucky, you know.”

“I know.” Morse smiled, gently taking her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Trewlove said dismissively, but the pallor of her face said otherwise. “Come a bit closer, would you?”

Morse decided it best not to argue, inching the chair close until his knees were flush against the side of the bed and her face was inches away from his own. It seemed to be what she wanted because she nodded approvingly, wriggling her hand free so she could turn his palm over, facing up. 

“I passed Dr. DeBryn in the corridor,” Trewlove said quietly, glancing around as if making sure no one else heard her. She grabbed Morse’s upturned hand and pressed something into it, closing his fingers around the item quickly. It felt small and thin but had corners, like a folded piece of paper. “Something on Auden, the dead man’s arm. A message. He thought it was meant for you.”

He frowned, unfolding the small piece of paper to reveal Dr. DeBryn’s familiar handwriting. 

DT|WMQ|MSMI

Even in death Auden still remained as cryptic as ever. Morse sighed and folded the cipher back up, stowing it in his pocket. It would have to wait until he got back to the station. Something in Auden’s effects might hold the key to it, his diary, perhaps. 

“Why the secrecy?” Morse asked, keeping his voice low. “Surely-”

Trewlove shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Morse, but I get the feeling that trust is a bit of a commodity at the moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.” Trewlove closed her eyes, settling back against the pillows and letting out a tense sigh. “You and Lomas… you were more than just friends, I take it?”

Morse said nothing, his silence speaking for itself. 

“Does Gael know?”

“I don’t see how it matters.” Morse sounded more defensive than he meant to and he quickly worked to soften his tone when Trewlove raised an eyebrow at him. “Adam and I- it was...brief. And a long time ago. I’m well past it.”

“I don’t think  _ he _ is.” Trewlove said sagely, her tone serious. “I saw how he looks at you. I think you should keep him at arm’s length until this is all sorted. I know his type. Quick to get the wrong idea.”

Morse would be lying if he didn’t say he wasn’t a bit surprised by her wariness of the man. He’d learned long ago not to question her judgement, but- well, it was  _ Adam _ . He was the last person from the old days, the only one  _ alive _ beside Mikhail. And he was the only person who held answers. Morse couldn’t exactly  _ hold him at arm’s length  _ when they needed to be working together to find a killer. 

_ Or killers,  _ Morse thought grimly. Two people had attacked him and Lomas in the street. Neither of them were Doyle. Or Bulgakov, for that matter. He hoped Adam’s intentions were good, but his intuitions seemed to be falling short. 

Still, that made both Gael and Trewlove now who were treating the man’s presence with some trepidation. And Morse’s own feelings were less than comfortable around him. That wasn’t nothing. 

“What did he want to talk to you about?” Morse asked curiously, remembering something. “Inspector Thursday said Lomas went to see you in the operating theatre.”

Trewlove snorted derisively. “He wanted to ask me what I saw, if I could identify the shooter. He described this man called Mikhail… something.” She half shrugged. “Wanted to know if it was him. He also had a few questions for the cutter about the procedure. Curious, I think. Then he just left.”

It certainly wasn’t the strangest thing for Adam to do, he was always unpredictable like that. Once, perhaps, Morse would have meant it as a compliment. Now, it was slightly bothersome. 

“Did DeBryn say anything after cause?” Morse felt for his pocket, fingers brushing against the piece of paper. Something was nagging him, something Henry said, and he tugged at his ear, trying to think- but then it was gone. 

Trewlove shook her head. “It was all a bit of a blur to be honest. But no, I don’t think he mentioned it. He should still be down in the mortuary if you’ve a mind to ask him.”

“I will,” Morse stood, reaching down to touch her shoulder lightly. She smiled a little at that. “Are you going to be alright here on your own?”

The constable rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a matter of time before George shows up to talk my ear off so I might as well enjoy the peace and quiet. Just-” Her expression turned serious. “- just be careful. Okay?”

“I’ll try my best.” Morse assured her.

Trewlove’s gaze traveled over the various cuts on his hands up to the bandage around his neck. “Try a little harder.”

———

Thursday and Lomas were waiting down at reception, the latter looking a bit impatient until he saw Morse and his irritable expression smoothed over. It was a bit like watching a mask fall into place and Morse found himself wondering how many times he’d seen Adam do that same thing- and how many times he’d missed it. The bruises on his pale face were beginning to stand out more starkly now and when Morse found he couldn’t look at it much longer his eyes traveled down, only to be met with the blood spotted bandages that wound around Adam’s knuckles. 

He might have saved both of their lives. For some reason, that fact sat oddly in Morse’s mind. Adam Lomas was a walking enigma. Sometimes his actions seemed incredibly clear while other times they were far too ambiguous. Morse learned to start questioning the things he did many years ago. Did he save Morse’s life because it was the just thing to do, or because he needed him? Or was it both? 

If Thursday could hear his thoughts, Morse was sure the inspector would simply tell him to count his blessings and move on. Perhaps he ought to. No use getting worked up on the pedantics of it all. 

“Sergeant Strange rang,” Thursday said promptly, already heading toward the doors and hefting the keys to the Jag in his hand. “Apparently Henry Auden’s widow showed up to the station not five minutes ago. We need to speak to her and get samples of her hair while we’re at it.”

Raindrops began to patter against the windows, mild in their intensity but enough to make Thursday grumble. He adjusted his hat and hefted the keys to the Jag in his hand. “You two wait here, I’ll bring the car around.” 

Morse stared after him, confused as he took in what was just said.  _ Eva Auden was in Oxford? Since when?  _

He met Eva Auden only once- back when she was Eva Warlow. She came to visit John in Berlin once over Christmas and Morse remembered thinking she was incredibly beautiful in a warm and temperate sort of way, her wavy red hair pinned up with a golden clip that complimented her festive green dress. Eva had laughed pleasantly when John introduced her to Morse.

_ “So you’re the one John’s been giving his crosswords to! Well, I’m glad I haven’t been sending them for nothing.” _

Henry had seemed rather taken with her, even then. Yet Morse’s most vivid memory of that time was when she grabbed Adam’s hand when they were all out at the pub and got him to dance with her. That didn’t seem to concern Henry- in fact, Morse thought that he was well aware of Adam’s preferences by that time- but John… he had a strange look on his face. Morse was surprised that he could even remember that, it was so long ago. Things changed with John after that. He became nervous, twisting his wedding band round and round his finger for minutes at a time when he thought no one was looking. Their marriage seemed happy and there was no question that they made a handsome couple, but looking back on it, Morse couldn’t help but wonder if John ever harboured any doubts about her. Something had changed, that much was certain.

Morse turned to Lomas, the only one who seemed to have answers now. “Who told Eva to come here?” 

“Malahide. This morning.” Lomas replied, raising an eyebrow at him like he found the question a bit ridiculous. “She had to be told, Morse. It was the decent thing to do.”

Morse couldn’t contest that. Adam wasn’t wrong. “What’s this about a hair sample though?” 

“The inspector said forensics came back with two different blood types at the crime scene at the inn,” Lomas explained, fishing his lighter out of his pocket. A nurse at the desk cast him a warning look and he took the hint, stepping outside. Morse followed him out and they stopped at the edge of the overhang, rain sliding down the slope of the short expanse of roof. Lomas lit a cigarette. “They also found strands of long hair. A woman’s.”

Morse frowned, taking a step back once the rain began to hit the tips of his shoes. He looked around the car park for any sign of Thursday and noticed the Jag coming up from their right, rain sloshing around the tyres as it ran through puddles. “That could have come from any number of places. Previous occupants, one of the staff, maybe it was stuck to his clothes-”

“That’s what I said, but apparently the constable asked and they clean the rooms thoroughly after each guest and none of the female staff have red hair,” Lomas said deftly, shaking his head. “If Eva can provide an alibi for the night of Henry’s death, which I’m sure she can, then she’s nothing to worry about. Certainly doesn’t need you defending her.” 

He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled deeply, his brow creased in thought as he looked back toward Morse. “Malahide also said that he found an empty sleeve of envelopes among Henry’s things. The label says it contained five and all of them are gone.”

Oh. “Five envelopes, five men.” Morse surmised. “Bulgakov, Kane, Doyle, you, and me.”

Lomas nodded, his eyes not leaving Morse. “So that begs the question, doesn’t it? Where’s yours?”

“I don’t know,” Morse shrugged honestly. “Lost in the post?”

“You don’t believe that.”

“What do you want me to say, Adam? I don’t know.” Morse said, exasperated. There were more pressing things to discuss than envelopes and papers at the moment. “Look, you said there were two types of blood at the scene. If Eva was there then she’d be wounded. That would be a clear indicator of her innocence or guilt.”

“Precisely,” Adam flicked his cigarette into the nearest puddle as the Jag came to a stop in front of them. He allowed Morse to take the passenger seat, making himself comfortable in the back. “See, I think that Bulgakov must’ve gone to Henry last night in search of the rest of the papers. He was wounded, and that’s why he had his friends jump us in the street rather than do it himself. Eva’s hair- if it hers- is inconsequential.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Lomas,” Thursday said gruffly, the windscreen wipers swiping rhythmically across the glass as they drove off toward the station. 

Adam was silent the entire way there.

\------

WPC Madsen met them downstairs near the front doors, clearly having been waiting for their arrival. She nodded politely toward Morse and Lomas before turning her attention to Inspector Thursday, matching his stride as he headed for the stairs up to the CID. “Mrs. Auden was waiting in your office, Inspector, but she started to look a bit peaky so I sent her off to the loo. She shouldn’t be much longer.” 

Thursday nodded amicably, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “Understandable. She’s just lost her husband, I’m sure she needs time to process it. Did Sergeant Strange tell you what I said about getting a hair sample to forensics?”

“She was in a bit of a state to be honest, sir,” the constable said apologetically, casting a glance down the corridor. “Nerves got the best of her. I think she may have caught a glimpse of one of the crime scene photos on your desk.” 

Morse felt a brief wave of nausea sweep over him at the thought. Eva had already lost her first husband to a violent death, but now to see what was done to Henry? Even Morse couldn’t stomach looking upon the scene so he couldn’t imagine what that image must have done to Eva. Her reaction was no surprise to him. 

Thursday looked like he was biting back a curse but he regained his composure quickly. “I shouldn’t have left those out. Alright, good work, constable. Let me know when she’s ready to talk, would you?”

“Of course, sir.” WPC Madsen nodded and stepped aside as Thursday started heading upstairs with Lomas. She touched Morse’s arm lightly to get his attention. “Sergeant Morse, you had a call from the pathologist at your desk, I left the phone off the hook since I figured you’d be back soon. He’s still on the line for you.”

“Oh,” Morse blinked, surprised that DeBryn had reached out again so quickly. “Thank you.”

The second Morse climbed the stairs and crossed the threshold into the CID he was intercepted by George Fancy, the younger man’s face filled to the brim with eager anticipation. 

“How’s Shirl? The old man went straight to his office with that Special Branch bloke, he didn’t even say-” His words came quickly and worriedly as he followed Morse closely. The sergeant made his way over to his own desk where, true to WPC Madsen’s word, the phone was resting off the hook. Fancy frowned once he took in Morse’s injuries, stopping to stare at him. “Wait- what happened to  _ you?  _ Shirley said there was a car accident-”

“Constable Trewlove is going to be just fine,” Morse said brusquely, looking up to see the relief descend across Fancy’s face. “You can go visit her if you’d like. I’m sure she’d enjoy the company.”

Fancy’s expression brightened considerably. “Did she say that?”

Morse half shrugged, not entirely dismissing it, and Fancy departed, his steps much lighter than they were a moment before. Across the bullpen he could see boxes of miscellaneous items stacked up where they kept their evidence. Henry’s things. The other Special Branch man, Malahide, was hunched over one box in particular, rifling through the sheafs of papers within it. As if he could sense Morse looking, he turned and caught his eye through the glass, peering at the sergeant momentarily before turning back to his task without so much as uttering a word. 

It was unsettling to say the least. The silence and austerity must give him plenty of credit in the circles he ran in but Morse didn’t like it one bit.

Sighing, Morse ran a hand across his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, picking up the phone with his less cut up hand, trying not to wince too much as his fingers curled around the receiver of his phone. “Dr. DeBryn?”

_ “Ah, Morse, I’m glad I could reach you,”  _ DeBryn’s voice sounded more harrowed than usual, his tone slightly hushed as he spoke.  _ “Did Constable Trewlove pass on your friend’s message?” _

“Yes, she did, thank you.” Morse said appreciatively, feeling for the paper in his pocket. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it properly but I’ll be sure to tell you if anything comes of it.” 

DeBryn breathed a sigh of relief.  _ “I’m not usually one for cloak and dagger business but I felt a bit of discretion would do some good at this juncture. Now listen, it looks like your friend, Mr. Auden, was done in with an unusual type of poison. The toxicology results will take quite some time to come through, I’m afraid. There’s very little physiological evidence to say what it did to him so it’s going to be difficult to narrow down until then.” _

Morse swallowed uncomfortably. This didn’t sound like any of the other deaths. Kane and Doyle both died from gunshot wounds, not poisoning. It didn’t fit the pattern. 

“How was he poisoned?” Morse ventured, keeping his voice low and angling his body away from where Malahide was standing. 

_ “It was in his tea, most likely.”  _ DeBryn replied, and Morse could hear the rustling of paper in the background.  _ “Stomach contents didn’t give us much since it was pretty much all down the drain-”  _ Morse felt slightly nauseous again.  _ “-so he seemed pretty keen to be ridding himself of something he ingested. There weren’t any injection sites to be found on his body so it’s looking more likely that he consumed it in his drink. Forensics brought a tea cup from his room to test. But there’s something else.” _

“Go on.” Morse urged, casting a glance toward Thursday’s office and spotting Lomas and the inspector through the glass, animatedly discussing something, their words muffled by the closed door. They wouldn’t hear a thing.

_ “Gunshot residue on his hands.”  _ DeBryn said promptly.  _ “Some time before his death, Mr. Auden fired a gun. Now, I’m not the detective here but since I assume no one in the adjoining rooms reported a loud gunshot I’m of the mind his weapon had a muffler affixed to it.”  _

“‘Of the mind’-” Morse repeated, confused. “You mean, a gun wasn’t recovered from the scene?” 

_ “That’s a question I should think to ask the police,”  _ DeBryn replied drily.  _ “I don’t recall seeing one in the room, however. Do you?”  _

Two types of blood. Henry’s and another. Gunshot residue from a missing weapon. 

Hair like Eva’s. 

Morse looked back toward the door to Thursday’s office, and it was only then that he saw what he missed before. It was nearly imperceptible, but it was there. 

A small smear of blood on the brass handle. 

A dull pounding reached Morse’s ears and he realised it was the sound of his own heart thrumming in his chest, his grip on the phone going slack as a shocked numbness spread through him. 

“I have to go.” Morse slammed the phone down and rushed to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he knocked rapidly on the door to Thursday's office, unwilling to touch the bloodied handle. If the door was left open then of course neither he or Lomas would have spotted it when they walked in. Morse could picture WPC Madsen opening the door for Eva, stepping aside to let her pass. Eva bracing herself with the handle. The women leaving, the door remaining open, swung inside the office. 

The door opened and Thursday stared at him curiously, wondering what on earth he was doing. “Morse-?”

“Eva.” Morse said breathlessly, turning and running across the room toward the stairs. He could hear Thursday curse and follow him, a second pair of footsteps- Adam’s- not far behind. 

Morse bounded down the stairs as quickly as he could and nearly barrelled into WPC Madsen who was standing almost exactly where they left her, still waiting for Eva. She looked up in surprise at the three men, taking notice of the expression on Morse’s face. 

“Something wrong, officers?” She looked between Morse and Thursday, then toward Lomas at the back of the group. “Mrs. Auden is still-”

“How long has she been in there?” Morse interrupted bluntly, looking down the corridor. 

Madsen looked down at her watch and Morse could pinpoint the exact moment she realised her mistake. “She- it’s been nearly fifteen minutes.”

“Morse, what-” Lomas began, his voice stressed, but Morse didn’t have time. He brushed past the constable and hurried down the corridor toward the womens’ lavatory, eliciting startled and angry sounds from the officers he pushed past. 

He found the door with the appropriate placard and seized the door handle, rattling it desperately, but it was locked tight. There was something slick on the handle and Morse pulled his hand away, fighting the urge to retch as it came away streaked with red. 

“Morse, that’s the womens’ lav, you can’t just-” Thursday froze, looking down at Morse’s hand. WPC Madsen gasped and Lomas’ face went as pale as a sheet. 

Morse looked down at the floor and suddenly wished he hadn’t. 

Because trailing out from under the door was more blood. The small pool just barely reached his shoes before he stumbled back against the opposite wall, fighting to keep his breathing steady. Red, spreading slowly across the linoleum like sap, viscous and dark. 

“Constable, get a key! Now!” Thursday roared, and Madsen rushed off down the hall toward the front desk while the inspector reached out toward Morse, holding the sergeant’s shoulder firmly to steady the lad. 

“He shot her,” Morse could hardly hear himself speak over the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears. He swallowed roughly, holding his bloodied hand away from his body and trying to manage the tremor with little success. “Henry shot her last night. She was there. She must have-”

_ She must have killed him.  _

_ But why? _

Lomas rushed forward, banging his fists on the door. There was a wild, determining look in his eyes as he hammered his fists into the wood. “Eva? Eva! It’s Adam! Open the bloody door!” 

There was no response from the other side. 

Adam braced himself and slammed his shoulder into the wood, but it didn’t give and he grunted in pain, grabbing his shoulder and stumbling back. WPC Madsen returned with the keys in hand, quickly fitting one into the lock. 

“I had one of the boys up front ring an ambulance,” she said hurriedly, turning the key and stepping aside when Adam pushed his way closer to throw the door open. “They should be here soon.”

Morse didn’t want to look, but he had to confirm his suspicions. He took a deep breath to steady himself and followed after Thursday, crowding into the small lavatory and doing his best to step around the small pool of blood. Adam was saying something, his voice frantic, but everything turned to white noise when Morse’s eyes fell upon the sight before him. 

Eva Auden was slumped against the wall by the sink nearest the door, the taps still running. If the drain had been blocked it would have overflowed and spilled over the basin onto the floor, but instead it just ran down freely, splashing over the red streaks on the porcelain. Bloody towels were strewn on the floor all around her, one held loosely in her crimson stained hand. Her black skirt was rucked up to expose her right hip where an angry, inflamed bullet wound stared back at Morse. Traces of fabric seemed to be caught in the wound, remnants of whatever she was wearing when she’d been shot, and bits of string- thread- stuck up around the perimeter, small red puncture marks forming a ring around it. 

Adam was trying to find a clean towel, pressing the closest one he could find over the wound and patting the side of her face urgently. There was a sickly sheen of sweat over her brow and Eva let out a low moan, her eyelids fluttering. Morse’s shoulders sagged with relief.  _ She was alive.  _

“Eva?” Adam looked at her intently, shaking her shoulder a bit too roughly. “Eva, wake up.”

She blinked once and let out a ragged breath, her head lolling against the wall. 

Someone had done a very poor job of trying to stitch up her wound.  _ Twice.  _ The first stitches looked to have been removed and redone- a running repair exchanged for something a little more substantial. There was a wadded clump of gauze and tape that had been torn off, a makeshift bandage. This wasn’t done at a hospital, that much was certain. 

“She must have torn her stitches trying to get up the stairs,” Thursday guessed, crouching down near Lomas to reach for Eva’s wrist, taking the woman’s pulse. The tension in his face eased slightly and Morse took that to be a good sign. He averted his eyes from the blood and focussed on the ceiling, counting his breaths. “Someone’s done a rotten job of patching her up. Must’ve done it herself. She needs proper care soon, that wound looks like it’s going septic.”

The towel Adam was holding soaked through and he tossed it aside to grab a new one. Thursday swore and got to his feet, rushing out into the hall. “Where’s that ambulance?!”

The heavy scent of blood was beginning to be more than Morse could bear and he found himself following Thursday out of the small room and back into the corridor, taking in large, gasping breaths to steady himself. The image of Henry’s body, his crushed fingers, the vile odour of sick and blood, all flooded Morse’s head, except now they were accompanied by the sight of Eva collapsed and bleeding not a few feet away, her face pale and sweaty, eyes fluttering weakly. 

_ They did this to each other.  _

What was it that Henry said to him last?

_ “I had it all wrong, Morse, I was such a fool-” _

_ “Oh, I knew it. It had to be.” _

Perhaps he was dying even then, slowly succumbing to the poison. Eva must have arrived just before he hung up. How did he know what she did? Was he right? He certainly thought he was, otherwise he wouldn’t have shot her. His own wife-

_ Henry,  _ Morse thought numbly.  _ What have you done? _

He slumped against the wall as officers rushed past him to see what the commotion was and he could hear the sounds of an ambulance outside of the station a few minutes later. The rattling of the stretcher being wheeled down the corridor brought Morse back to himself and he barely made out a blur of dark blue clothing before he was being wrapped in a firm embrace. A familiar hand winding itself through the air at the back of his neck and Morse inhaled the comforting scent of detergent and aftershave, leaning into the arms that held him. 

“It wasn’t you,” Gael’s words were breathy with relief, coming from somewhere close to Morse’s ear, and he tightened his embrace. “Thank God. It wasn’t you.”

His worry was so palpable that Morse didn’t even know how to respond. Instead, he felt tears prickle behind his closed eyes and he almost tried to wipe them away before remembering about Eva’s blood on his hand. It was easier to ignore with the reassuring comfort of Gael filling his senses, but it was still there on the periphery, invasive and persistent. 

Someone called for Gael, one of the other paramedics, likely, and he reluctantly released Morse. Looking to the side, Morse could see the two other paramedics gently placing Eva on the stretcher. Adam wasn’t far away, but rather than watching Eva he seemed to be looking right past her at Gael and Morse. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Gael asked Morse, concerned. That drew his attention back and Morse nodded as convincingly as he could. 

“I’ll be fine,” Morse assured him despite every fibre of his being wanting to scrub his hand under scalding water until the skin was raw and clear of any traces of blood. That probably didn’t constitute ‘fine’. But it was as close as he could be, all things considered. 

Gael didn’t look entirely convinced. He was too perceptive for his own good sometimes. “I’ll come back, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Mr. Edwards,” Lomas interrupted as the two other medics began wheeling Eva out and down the corridor. He looked disheveled, his neatly combed hair now falling in a chaotic mess across his forehead and there was a touch of blood on his shirt that Morse was trying very hard not to look at. “They won’t let me come with her. Can-”

“We need room to work, Mr. Lomas,” Gael shook his head apologetically, taking hold of the back of the stretcher as one of the other medics ran ahead to grab the doors. “You can drive behind the ambulance and follow us to the hospital, that’s the best I can offer.”

“Thank you,” Lomas said gratefully, his shoulders sagging. “You’ll help her?”

“We’ll do the best we can,” Gael gave a small smile. He glanced over at Morse, catching his eyes for one last second before heading out and working on lowering the stretcher carefully down the front steps. 

In spite of what Gael knew about Lomas, he was still kind to him when it was needed. Morse wasn’t surprised since it was just how Gael was. Still, it was always nice to be reminded of that goodness in him. When everything was falling apart like this, someone could still be relied upon to be kind. 

Lomas reached for his pocket to find his keys, then swore violently, looking at Morse helplessly like he only just remembered that his vehicle had been crashed into a few hours ago. Did he even know where it was now? “Morse, do you-”

Thursday threw him the keys to the Jag and Lomas caught them somewhat clumsily in his haste. “Go!”

He turned and ran off as fast as he could. 

Morse leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, unable to muster the energy to keep himself upright any longer. Thursday’s worried voice swam above him, crowding his ears, and Morse closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. Gael had taught him this for whenever he got too overwhelmed. He could almost still feel Gael’s hand resting over his own, just over his diaphragm, firm and steady. Reassuring and constant. 

_ “Feel that? Just match my breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out.” _

Blood on his hands.

_ Breathe in. Breathe out.  _

Blood on Adam’s shirt.

_ Breathe in. Breathe out. _

Blood on Eva’s dress.

_ Breathe- _

“Morse?” Thursday said again, clearer this time.

He didn’t want to open his eyes just yet. 

Morse swallowed uncomfortably, figuring his silence was only more concerning. “I need a moment.” 

“Take all the time you need, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Thing He Loves


	11. The Thing He Loves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yet each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde
> 
> Regrets, reflections, and a revelation too late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic depictions of injury, poisoning, hallucinations, suffocation

Gael held the young woman’s hand as she tossed and turned on the stretcher, her skin cold and clammy to the touch and barely warming from the contact of his own skin. There was a sickly sheen of perspiration across her ghostly pale face, red hairs plastered to her feverish brow. One of the other paramedics had to hold her down while Gael inserted the line for antibiotics into her arm as steadily as he was able in the back of a moving ambulance. She hadn’t taken well to being restrained and lashed out in her delirium. The paramedic, Jonah, was sporting a red mark on his jaw from a successful strike, but luckily he was known for his level headedness and it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. 

“It’s alright, Eva,” Gael soothed as the woman shivered violently, the thin sheet pulled over her not doing much to ease her discomfort.  _ Eva.  _ He was sure that was the name he heard the man- Lomas- call her. “You’re on the way to hospital, love. You’re going to be just fine.”

The reassuring words seemed to have a visible effect on her as she let out a shaky sigh and settled back against the cot. With his free hand, he passed a bottle of solution to the other medic as he worked to clean the area around her wound. The bleeding had slowed in the past few minutes, he could tell from the way the stain on the bandage had ceased to grow, but it was apparent that there was already an issue with the lack of clotting. The wound wasn’t closing itself up the way it ought to. A transfusion might be in order, he’d make sure to tell one of the cutters. 

There wasn’t much more to be done in the moment, things would get better once she was in the operating theatre under the hands of actual doctors, but for now Gael could at least make sure she knew she was safe- that someone was with her. Sepsis was a nasty thing and he could make an educated guess on what had caused it. Clumsy, unprofessional surgery by the looks of it. There seemed to have been at least two attempts to treat the wound, an initial suture, then a second go whereupon the bullet was removed and everything was closed back up. The redness of the skin around the newer sutures spoke to the recency and Gael only hoped she was under the influence of some pain reliever when it all happened. Whoever had tried to help her neglected to clean the wound properly and she could see clothing fibres embedded deep within the flesh, likely from whatever she’d been wearing when she was shot. Paired with improperly sterilised tools, it was no wonder things had gone this way. Someone clearly hadn’t wanted her to go to hospital and have her condition discovered. 

Now, there was just no choice. 

Eva murmured something incomprehensible, pale fingers wrapping weakly around Gael’s wrist and he looked down in surprise to see her eyes fluttering open, golden brown irises barely visible under her scarcely parted eyelids. Her throat bobbed as she made an attempt to swallow and ease her words.  _ “M- Michael…”  _

“Michael?” Gael repeated and the woman nodded slightly, flinching a bit as Jonah continued on cleaning her wound. There was something off about her pronunciation, an inflection that he didn’t quite understand.  _ Michael.  _ But not  _ quite.  _ “Is that someone you know? Should we call him for you?”

She shook her head, hair rustling against the thin pillow. “He- he kill- killed Michael. My- my idea. I killed him. Henry, I…” 

Her words trailed off and she breathed shakily, pursing her lips shut as she fought back a fresh wave of pain. Gael was left staring at her, unsure of how to react. Delirium wasn’t uncommon for septic patients so her confession had to be taken with a grain of salt, but Gael couldn’t help but wonder what truth there was within it. What had Morse said earlier? His friend,  _ Henry,  _ had been found dead this morning. And Michael… 

No, not Michael.  _ Mikhail.  _

Mikhail Bulgakov was dead. 

“You killed him?” Gael asked as gently as he could as he felt the ambulance come to a careful stop. “You killed Mikhail?”

She made a low sound in the back of her throat, a noise of dissent. “H…” 

“Henry?” Gael supplied when she didn’t say anything further, getting up and preparing the stretcher for disembarking. The rails went up and he stood with the others, ready to move. “Was it Henry?”

Before she could respond, the doors were wrenched open and they were going, carefully lowering the stretcher out of the ambulance, Gael holding the IV level above her as they rushed into the hospital. Tyres screeched outside and he guessed that Lomas must have been right on their tail the entire time. 

“Eva!” 

Gael hardly remembered what he said to the other nurses as they intercepted the stretcher, carting Eva off to surgery, as he quickly turned to grab Lomas who made a rather unsuccessful attempt to run after her. “Eva! Get off- Eva!”

“There’s nothing you can do for her now,” Gael said firmly as the man struggled against him, trying to be gentle, but it was difficult considering how hard Lomas was fighting back. “She’s in good hands, Mr. Lomas. She needs you calm, not irrational.”

It was like a switch had been flipped. Lomas relented and Gael finally loosened his grip, allowing the man to use his shoulder as support as he composed himself, the wild look in his eyes steadily dying down. He did look in a bit of a state, his hair in disarray, hand shaped marks of blood staining his white shirt. The pale green of his eyes had been stirred into something darker and more potent, the flecks of gold in them now visible with the odd contrast. And those eyes stared back at Gael, returning the scrutiny. 

Despite his best efforts, Gael felt an unpleasant, angry tightness in his chest as he looked at the man, filling in the blanks in Morse’s story. There’d been something between them at one time. Gael wasn’t blind. It wouldn’t have bothered him had Morse not admitted what Lomas did. Apparently these emotional bursts of violence weren’t historically uncommon, and any sympathy Gael might hold for Lomas met immediate resistance as he pictured the night in Berlin that Morse described to him and Thursday. Heat of the moment wasn’t an excuse. It was dangerous. 

Even with Morse not present, Gael still felt a surge of protectiveness over him, faced with the man that once hurt him in more ways than one. Still, Gael had a job to do. 

“I’m sorry,” Lomas said eventually, and it was odd how much he really looked it. He seemed tired and apologetic, a bit lost as he looked around the walls of the hospital corridor before settling back on Gael. “She’s just- she’s a dear friend. I lost my head for a moment there.”

“It’s understandable,” Gael gave him a brief, reassuring smile. “Here, why don’t you sit yourself down-”

He started to lead Lomas over to a nearby set of chairs but he shook his head, waving his hand in protest. “No, no, I’ve got to get back to the police station. You’re right, Eva’s in good hands.” Lomas’ expression brightened for a moment and he regarded Gael with a smile. “Look, Edwards- how about I give you a ride back with me? It’ll save you the fare.”

Gael looked down at his watch. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to call off early now. And he promised Morse he would be back. Sooner was much better than later. Despite his reservations about the kind of man Lomas was, this would certainly be convenient for him. 

“You don’t mind?” Gael asked, looking back up at Lomas who seemed genuinely pleased with the decision. 

“Not at all,” Lomas shook his head, reaching for the keys in his pocket. “We got off on the wrong foot, you and me. You helped save Eva. The least I can do is give you a lift, buy you a coffee, even. How’s that sound?”

Gael allowed himself a small smile, taking it for the olive branch that it was. “Sounds fine to me.”

\------

The station was a bustling hive of activity when they arrived, cleaners desperately trying to erase the horrific image that was the small, blood spattered room down the corridor. The front door had been propped open to encourage air flow, but there was still the bitter, acrid scent of blood lingering in the air. It was not yet cloying, not in the way one would expect. Gael knew from far too much experience that the scent of blood was sharp and biting, as vicious as the wounds it bled from. Despite the good he was doing on his shifts with the paramedics, it was the one thing he could never get used to. 

Time and time again he thought about quitting. He was good as a nurse. He was fine in the sterile ward with the fresh flowers brought in each week and the calm that was rarely broken. Why did he need to take on extra shifts with the ambulance runners, faced with so much violence and misery that he could only do so much to keep at bay? Did it do him any good to have that same jolt of fear whenever they went off to fetch a victim of a shooting, fearing it was Morse he would find? 

There was a phantom twinge in his arm as he remembered the sensation of his own bones breaking under the force of Mason Gull’s attack in the hospital ward all that time ago. Just over a year. 

It was the first day Gael met Morse. 

He remembered when the medics brought Morse onto the ward, one of the other nurses speaking in hushed excitement as she said  _ “He’s a policeman!”  _ like it was the most interesting fodder for the gossip pool that she would find that evening. It hadn’t made sense to Gael. The man lying prone on the cot, his skin mottled with harsh bruises and dark beads of long dried blood, copper hair tangled over his fair brow- he looked nothing like the broad shouldered hulking forms of brutish policemen that haunted Gael’s own memory. They weren’t all cut from the same cloth, Gael knew that, but this man looked as if he was of a different sort altogether. He looked…vulnerable. And heart wrenchingly alone. 

So Gael did what he did best. He dealt in kindness, not medicine. Not like the stuffy, arrogant doctors with their gold watches and pearl cufflinks who counted head colds like coins. There was something about Morse, something that formed that unbreakable strong of attachment from the second his eyes opened and Gael was at his side. 

Violence wasn’t new to Gael even then. But that didn’t mean it ever got easier. It didn’t get easier seeing Morse trapped under Gull’s knife, struck down by another officer in a riot, half dead in a river, nearly bleeding out on the snowy ground outside a bank. 

But Gael wasn’t going to stop what he was doing just because it wasn’t easy. He was where he was needed. In the ward, in the back of the ambulance, and holding Morse in the corridor of a police station and shielding the man from the gruesome sight of blood with his own body. 

He felt a strange tightness in his throat and he touched his neck absently, as if he could perhaps feel whatever was going on within. Lomas had left to go somewhere upstairs, leaving Gael sitting by the front desk for whenever Morse returned. Apparently Inspector Thursday had taken him somewhere to clear his head, and Gael had a sneaking suspicion that meant the pub. Gael had half a mind to simply try and find them himself but decided that perhaps Morse did need to clear his head. He could do without Gael smothering him with concern for a few minutes longer. 

Gael’s brow was feeling increasingly warm, but given the cooling temperature outside he was sure something else was at play. Stress, perhaps. That would be it. 

“Ah, Mr. Edwards!” a chipper voice sounded nearby and Gael turned to see the Chief Superintendent, Mr. Bright, striding toward him with a jovial smile on his face. He extended his hand out and Gael stood, shaking it readily. “You certainly are a welcome sight. Any news from the hospital?”

“Your constable is on the mend, sir,” Gael assured him with a smile, immediately seeing the worry fall from his aged features. “No need to worry yourself overmuch.”

“Worried?” Bright said like the word itself was something appalling to him, His spindly hand waved in the air as if dismissing the very notion. “No, I wasn’t-” If he realised he wasn’t being very convincing he certainly wasn’t going to show defeat so Bright simply cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What brings you back to our dark corner so soon, Edwards?”

“I was just waiting for Morse to return,” Gael explained, slightly humoured by the erratic energy of the chief superintendent. “I understand he’s out at the moment. Mr. Lomas said I should sit here.”

Bright made an indignant noise and cast his gaze toward the stares as if he could summon Lomas down to subject him to his glare. He looked back to Gael with a much gentler expression, if a bit irritated. “Well I’m not quite sure what Mr. Lomas was thinking keeping you down here, we can find you a much more comfortable place to wait, not among-” he gestured vaguely to the small group of men currently being booked in for some misdeed. “Well, you’re a friend to us here, Mr. Edwards, no doubts about that.”

“That’s good of you to say, sir.”

Bright beamed as if to say  _ Yes, it is, isn’t it?  _ Gael tried hard not to laugh a little. “Well come with me then, I’m sure Inspector Thursday won’t mind you waiting in his office.”

He muttered something dark about Lomas that Gael didn’t quite catch as he followed him upstairs. For all his oddities, Gael had long since decided that Bright was a rather sincere and kind man in his grandfatherly way. He reminded Gael a bit of one of the old ward matrons, both commanding and supportive in force but likewise familial and energetic. 

They reached the Inspector’s office soon and Gael’s knees felt a bit weak from the excursion up the stairs, the couch against the wall looking very inviting as he felt an urge to just collapse into it. He was feeling warmer and the taste of coffee was still thick in his mouth, making him feel slightly desperate to purge both now unpleasant sensations away. 

“Sorry, sir, but do you know where I could get a glass of water?” Gael turned to Bright just as he was about to leave. It was becoming difficult to ignore now, and oddly he was sensing a slight elevation in his pulse, his breaths coming a bit shallower. Perhaps he’d taken ill and didn’t notice until now, or maybe it was the shock of everything from earlier- yes that was it-

Bright looked to the decanter of amber liquid on the Inspector’s desk and he made toward it. “There’s a drop of brandy here if you’d prefer. I don’t often indulge but sometimes I do find it help-”

“Just water.” Gael shook his head politely. “If it’s not much trouble.”

“Perish the thought,” Bright waved his hand again, smiling well- brightly. “Take a seat, I’ll find something for you.”

Gael smiled in thanks and took a seat, trying to ignore the sudden way his head decided to start swimming. Bright returned soon with the glass of water and left him in peace, nothing to be heard but the clicking of typewriter keys outside sounding in tandem with the blood going past his ears. 

An odd sensation suddenly seized him, a blend of nausea and feverish warmth that felt like a suffocating cloud around his head, causing his vision to blur and become hazy. A sudden sound brought him back to himself and Gael looked down at his hands, now clasped around nothing. The glass of water was now soaking into the rug, the cup itself rolling into the nearest shelf with a hollow sound that seemed to resonate oddly in his ears. It sounded like bells tolling- no, that wasn’t right, but yet he could hear them. Bells tolling, the large brass instruments sounding out the strangely spaced heartbeat of the pulsing floor beneath him-

And a new glass of water sitting innocently at his feet. A glass he somehow knew was very much  _ not real. _

A sharp sting of pain erupted on the side of his face and Gael distantly realised that he’d struck himself in an attempt to escape from this bizarre daze. 

Something was very wrong. 

Gael stumbled from Thursday’s office, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he drew in rasping breaths. He drew a few odd looks but it wasn’t his main concern. He found himself in a corridor, familiar, but somehow he wasn’t sure where it led. Somewhere. Somewhere was good.

_ Confusion,  _ some still rational part of his brain noted.  _ Disorientation. Hallucinations. Dry mouth, rapid heartbeat-  _ the catalogue of symptoms quickly turned into incomprehensible nonsense and Gael soon found himself in an empty corridor, leaning heavily against a wall as he tried to gather himself. Footsteps sounded behind him but he wasn’t even sure if he could trust that perception. He didn’t want to look and see no one there, the sound of shoes against the tiles still echoing in his ears. 

Even as he swallowed it didn’t seem to do anything to combat the persistent dryness in his mouth. He’d been feeling warm for the past half hour or so but made the mistake of attributing it to stress. Now, he realised it was something else, something febrile, possibly. The green of the station’s walls seemed to blur and swim before his eyes, and with each step he could feel something wrong- a stiffness in his muscles that didn’t seem to make sense. 

_ This isn’t right,  _ Gael thought frantically, the words trapped inside his head as his mouth moved soundlessly.  _ This isn’t right, something’s wrong- _

His hands began to shake violently and in noticing them, Gael nearly tripped over his own suddenly uncooperative feet, nearly pitching himself forward. 

“Hey, hey, easy there,” Adam Lomas suddenly appeared and caught Gael around the shoulders, easing him down to the floor of the corridor. The footsteps were real. It had been Lomas following him. 

The coolness of the linoleum was a relief to Gael’s burning skin, even through his shirt, and he sighed, his head lolling against the ground. Lomas’ hand pressed against his brow as if he was taking his temperature and Gael blinked, trying to locate the man’s face, but it was hazy, darkened by a vignette that tinged his vision. 

_ Fading. Not good.  _

_ Call an ambulance,  _ Gael tried to say, but it came out only as a choked, stuttering gasp. “C- call- help-”

Why didn’t Lomas look concerned? From what Gael could make out of his face, there seemed to be an unsettling calmness to it, even a small smile that tugged at his thin mouth. The man should be getting help, he should be doing  _ something-  _

But instead, Lomas shifted so he was all but straddling Gael, knees planted on either side of his torso as he kneeled above him. 

“Lomas, w- what-”

“I need you to relax, alright?” Lomas soothed, and his hand drifted from Gael’s brow to press over his mouth, muffling his failing speech and forcing him to breath heavily through his nose, the breaths coming rugged and unevenly. Panic seized Gael once he realised what Lomas was doing and he tried to kick out, thrash against him, but his limbs refused to move, almost as if they were-

_ Paralysed.  _

With his free hand, Lomas began patting around Gael’s pockets, searching for something. He heard the faint jangle of keys as the man continued to speak. “The downside of this particular toxin is that it takes hours to go into effect, half an hour at the least though with the dose I gave you.” Lomas sighed rather irritably, then flashed a grin down at Gael. “Timed it just right, didn’t I?”

_ Toxin? Half an hour? He’d been poisoned half an hour ago? How- _

_ The coffee.  _

_ Oh, God, no.  _

The sudden flash of understanding was almost as painful as the sudden sharpness in his chest and Gael let out a gasp that was stopped short at Lomas’ palm over his mouth. He barely saw the flash of the syringe as it disappeared back up Lomas’ sleeve.

Someone would come down the corridor. Someone would see. Someone would help. The fine line between hope and lies snapped like a taut thread. 

“Just relax.” Lomas said in a low voice, looking up and down the corridor to make sure no one was coming. “Now, I want you to listen to me closely, Mr. Edwards. That syringe was your second dose and your body is not going to react well to this amount of it in your system. Any minute now the seizures are going to start, and it’s not going to be pleasant. Your breaths are only going to get even more rapid, and we can only hope those muscles won’t become paralysed as well. I want to know where the papers are. Our dear Morse is being rather uncooperative on the matter and I don’t believe he doesn’t have them. So I’m asking you instead. If you’ve seen them, if Morse has said  _ anything,  _ I want to know. And I want you to nod if you’re going to tell me.”

A tremor shook Gael’s body and he spasmed beneath Lomas, but no nod was forthcoming. Lomas sighed and pinched Gael’s nose shut with his free hand, cutting off his ability to breathe completely. Gael’s eyes widened, and he threw his body into motion, trying to loosen Lomas’ hold, his hands twitched uselessly against the floor and his chest heaved painfully with each breath that didn’t come. 

“Come now, Gael,” Lomas’ voice was almost crooning in its tone, and his eyes flashed with malice, a condescending smile directed down at him. “Give me what I want and I’ll let you breathe. Simple as that.” 

Give him what he wants. It was laughable. As if Gael would ever consider yielding him. Whatever kindness or decency he thought he was in Lomas earlier was all a facade. And he was an idiot for buying it. 

_ He had us both fooled, didn’t he? I’m so sorry. I should have known better.  _ Gael thought as he looked up at Morse’s bloodied and bruised face above him, just over Lomas’ shoulder. This Morse looked younger, wounded and lost, his eyes brimming with a betrayal that Lomas caused but Gael felt. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t Morse. Just another hallucination. 

The false face was gone in an instant. 

Lomas’ dark hair seemed to peel away from his scalp, the falling locks transforming into black feathers that vanished before they could evel touch Gael. He blinked and everything was back to normal. At least for that moment. 

Papers. That was what Lomas wanted. But Gael didn’t know. There was no way Lomas would believe him even if he admitted that. Best not give him any satisfaction. 

Gael stared back at Lomas with as much defiance as he could muster, hoping his blatant refusal showed enough on his face to get the message across without him having to speak. Even as his lungs cried for air, he wouldn’t give in. Not to someone like  _ him.  _

Suddenly, Lomas’ hands were gone, and Gael heaved in a series of gasping breaths, unable to stop the hyperventilation. 

“I-” Another gasp. “I know- what you want.” Gael ground out, trying to force his words out rather than his breaths as he stared up at the man above him. “I’ve seen-” _ Breathe. _ “The way you look at him-” 

Lomas stifled a laugh, his green eyes venomous as they peered down at him before darkness replaced it all in a heartbeat. “You don’t miss anything, do you, Edwards? So perceptive.”

“He’ll  _ never  _ be yours-” Gael hissed, and he tried to open his eyes to replace the darkness with Lomas’ face only to discover that his eyes  _ were  _ open. Unseeing. Whatever toxin it was- it was affecting his vision. And, if Lomas was telling the truth, would soon cause seizures. “So you- and your bloody papers- can go straight to hell.”

“Oh, dear Gael,” he could hear the grin in Lomas’ voice and soon saw it as his vision fluttered back for a few sparse moments. A glass phial hovered above his face, held between Lomas' thin fingers. Some remaining strand of logic told Gael it was an antidote. Mocking him. “You think because you bought a nice flat, because you share a home, share moments of your life, that he’s  _ yours?  _ We have a history, Morse and I. One I want to reclaim. I want him. He’s  _ mine.” _

“He doesn’t- ah-  _ belong _ to anyone.” Gael felt his muscles tense painfully as another spasm caught him. It was his anger alone that was keeping his speech coherent and consistent, and he knew that once any effort let up, it would be lost. “You don’t…deserve him.”

A scoff. “Says you.”

“I  _ love him,”  _ Gael spat venomously, and a sharp gasp was torn from him as his back arched with the force of the next spasm, forcing Lomas to let up. He noticed too hazily that the spasms were growing closer and closer in frequency. The seizures couldn’t be far off. “I d- I don’t th- think you know- what that-  _ means.”  _

Lomas looked apprehensive, eyebrows high with humour. “I’ll just have to figure it out, then, won’t I? You can’t expect me to let you live now, so I’ll have all the time in the world once you’re gone. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure dear Morse doesn’t grieve you for long.” 

Gael’s vision blacked out once again and something told him that it was for good- just when the first seizure hit and his head slammed back against the hard ground, the pain hardly registering through the thick haze that enveloped him. 

He hardly heard Lomas’ false cries for help before it swallowed him completely. 

\----

“Go on, get that down you,” Thursday nudged the pint of beer toward Morse as he sat down across from him at the table, his own glass in hand. 

Morse had moved beyond protesting that he was fine and obediently took the drink, only able to manage one sip to wash away the lingering taste of bile before his stomach threatened to rebel again. He couldn’t get the sight of blood out of his head, and despite the rigourous scrubbing his hands had taken he wasn’t sure it was completely gone from his skin either. 

_ The scene had played out in his mind as he had washed his hands, the dark of Henry’s room lit only with the dim light of a lamp, the clattering of china as the poison was taken. The muffled sound of a gunshot, Eva’s stifled cry. Henry succumbing to the effects of poison, weakened enough for even Eva to subdue him in her state. Blood. It was supposed to be clean. Poison. Quick, clean, efficient. Far too much blood- _

And that was how Morse had suddenly found himself collapsed over a toilet, retching up what little he even had in his stomach. Thursday had found him like that and appropriately decided that drinks were in order. 

The Lamb and Flag was all but restored to its previous state since the landlord had been working tirelessly all day to try and repair what damage had been done. Floorboards were back in place, tables righted, but a few side panels were in need of replacement, that much was sure. Still, business continued as usual. 

It didn’t help that they were sitting in the same spot Morse and Auden were almost exactly one day ago. There was the uncomfortable feeling of standing in a dead man’s shoes as Morse sat in the booth, the hard wood against his back supporting him as it did Henry. It was one of the last places Henry had been before he was killed. It was the place they were meant to meet. Sitting anywhere else felt like dropping the final end of that promise. Henry wasn’t there, but his message was. 

Morse took another drink, pacing himself so as not to upset his stomach further, and reached into his pocket with his other hand, finding the folded piece of paper Trewlove had given him at the hospital. Setting his glass down, Morse unfolded the paper and laid it flat on the table, staring down at the short cipher written out in DeBryn’s neat hand. 

DT|WMQ|MSMI

So this was what Morse caught a glimpse of on Henry’s arm at the scene. What had been so important to write and conceal on his person when he’d just shot his wife and was already dying himself? Why couldn’t he have told Morse over the phone that night?

_ Or did he? _

There was something odd Henry had said near the end, one of the last things he would ever say to Morse. 

_ “You. It’s always been you. Remember, all right?” _

_ You.  _ Morse. 

Oh, surely it couldn’t be  _ that  _ simple. 

Thursday cast a glance at the paper over the rim of his own pint, eyes narrowing as he studied the letters. “What’s that, then? A cipher?”

“Mm,” Morse hummed in acknowledgement, searching out his pen and notebook quickly before the sudden thought escaped him. “Dr. DeBryn found this written on Henry Auden’s arm.”

Thursday looked like he intended to ask one more question but someone at the bar called out to him, phone in hand, and the inspector left to go accept the call. 

He scribbled out a line of the alphabet as quickly as he could, copying another beneath it but starting with his own name, m-o-r-s-e and removing those letters from the following sequence. If it was just a keyword substitution cipher then Morse should be able to make quick work of it. One letter came after the next, and after a few moments Morse was left staring with numb shock at the message he’d written out. Henry’s message. 

DT|WMQ|MSMI

IT|WAS|ADAM

The pen fell from Morse’s hand and he cursed, reaching blindly for it as his heart raced and head swam, trying to process this sudden revelation. Adam.  _ It was Adam.  _

_ What reason did Henry have to lie? It was Adam. It was Adam.  _

Morse felt sick beyond reason at the thought of it. Sick and nauseous because it was  _ true  _ and it had been in front of him the entire time. It had been there since Berlin when Morse and Auden rushed into John’s room, finding Warlow seemingly dead at Adam Lomas’ hands. Occam’s Razor. And that razor felt like it was pressed against his throat just like the knife of his attacker in the street. 

An attack that Adam likely orchestrated. 

This was all him, this was all his design, this mad game of smoke and mirrors. The accident, the attack, Soren’s body, Trewlove’s injury, having them all looking for the wrong man as he tried to fit Mikhail up for his own crimes. Eva’s sudden appearance-

Morse felt his throat close up as a terrible question assaulted his mind. She was involved. After all, it had to have been Henry who shot her. Was she in on it with Adam? For how long?

Two of her husbands dead. Dead by Adam Lomas’ hand. Yet she came when he called. 

_ Henry must have figured it out in the end, somehow something told him, or someone- _

_ -and Trewlove was shot in the same exact spot as Eva, was there something to that? _

Morse reached for the pen and his hand hit a small wood plank in the corner of the seat. It looked different than the smooth, interrupted wood that made up the rest of the bench and Morse figured it must have been a patch up. To his surprise, the plank  _ moved,  _ angling down into a dark hollow space beneath the seat. It was  _ loose.  _

Henry sat here only yesterday. Did he know about that?

“Oh, Henry, you didn’t-” Morse realised suddenly, clarity cutting through the suffocating cloud of panic and dread as he stood suddenly, almost upsetting the table. The small piece of wood came up easily and Morse saw it immediately. 

A small, battered leather briefcase crammed into the small space beneath the seat, fitted through the gap in the seat. It was bulging with papers, too many for it to be zipped up, and a long length of twine was wrapped twice around it in an attempt to keep the contents contained. 

_ The papers.  _

With slightly shaking hands, Morse reached down and withdrew the briefcase, the item heavy with the weight of the lives lost in the attempt to find it. Five envelopes, five men. Kane and Doyle had been killed for their papers. And now he was sure Mikhail had been as well. Lomas had all of them. 

But it wasn't five envelopes _._ Lomas must have thought he was doing well, he’d tracked down four of five. But there were only four to find. Morse had never been sent anything. There was no fifth envelope. This briefcase, _this_ was it. This was everything Henry had, his evidence, his proof, everything that Lomas and Malahide couldn't find in his room, everything he kept for himself. Everything he wanted Morse to have. 

And something told Morse it was much more than Adam had in mind. 

He fumbled for the knot on the string, trying to open the briefcase, but a hand suddenly closed over his, stilling him. 

Morse looked up at Thursday and saw an expression he never hoped to see on his face again. 

An expression that told him something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly, disastrously wrong. 

“It’s Gael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sitz im Leben
> 
> I think the only thing for me to say right now is I'm so sorry. I take nearly a month to update and THIS is what you get? I'm sorry to both Morse and Gael, I hope they forgive me in later chapters


	12. Sitz im Leben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter heavily features commentary of the toxic and manipulative relationship between Adam and Morse. Essentially, Lomas manipulated him into thinking he cared about him, emotionally isolated him from the other men in the detachment, and severely distorted Morse’s perception of Henry Auden, who threatened his control. If anyone was wondering why Morse was seemingly unreasonably more against Henry than Adam in spite of what he did, but also tended to go back and forth on this matter, this might clear it up. There are points where both Morse and Auden direct feelings of guilt, failure, and blame toward themselves, so please note that this is common with victims of abuse/manipulation and is just their mistaken perception, not my own commentary. Victims are never to blame, period. 
> 
> Additional warnings: Gael was poisoned in the last chapter so the effects of that are continuing here, and there is a brief mention of a gunshot injury
> 
> This is probably one of the worst things I've written but I was long overdue for an update so I hope this suffices

The Radcliffe seemed quiet now, not as bustling and frantic as it had been earlier, but that calm was fraught with a tension so palpable that it could have been suffocating. Not far above him, Trewlove was recovering from a gunshot wound. Eva Auden might still be in surgery. Was it really only hours ago that Morse and Lomas had been wheeled through these same doors after their car crash? 

And now Gael Edwards.

Five hospitalisations in one day. Thursday was hard pressed to remember a day that had been as chaotic and bloody as this one. The mangled bodies of Henry Auden and Soren Doyle lingered in the forefront of his mind, overshadowed by the hellish scene in the bathroom where they found Mrs. Auden all but bleeding out on the floor. Shot by her own husband the night he died, if Morse’s theory was correct. He couldn’t see why it wouldn’t be so. Morse seemed convinced of it, and it wasn’t Thursday’s place to doubt him now, not with everything that was happening. 

Whatever this was, Morse was right in the middle of it all. His past was coming back to haunt him in the worst possible way. Ciphers, Special Branch, Auden’s cryptic papers, this was all Morse’s world. Or, at least it had been, once. 

This wasn’t bad luck or coincidence, this was by design. The force that brought Auden to Oxford was not intent on departing anytime soon. Not until it destroyed everything in its wake. 

And that seemed to include Gael. 

“How is he?” Inspector Thursday asked as he quickly followed the fast paced nurse down the hospital corridor, her swift strides forcing him to try to keep up lest he be left behind in the wake of her urgency. 

He’d been forced to wait fifteen minutes before someone was able to take him back to see Gael, but it was just as well. Morse couldn’t be more than five minutes away by now. Thursday had ordered Morse to drop him at the hospital and go off with those damned papers to do what he saw fit. To have them in Lomas’ vicinity could prove catastrophic, and Morse had an unusually strong determination about him as he left Thursday. 

All the inspector could do was have faith in him. 

“Not well,” the nurse admitted, casting a brief glance over her shoulder as if to ensure that the inspector was still in tow. “According to the man that was with him at the time of the incident, Mr. Edwards seemed to have been presenting signs of ataxia prior to his collapse. Reportedly, he lost consciousness for a few minutes but he’s been awake ever since the medics reached him. Lucid, however, is another thing entirely.”

Thursday frowned and removed his hat as they went through a set of double doors to a bustling emergency area with a row of curtained off areas housing patients in need of urgent care. It always seemed like a blessing to be sent here rather than the waiting area outside of surgery, especially when it came to Morse. The bar wasn’t exactly set high there, but now- well, it didn’t feel like a blessing. That much was certain. 

And it wasn’t Morse this time.

It was  _ Gael.  _

The call that had come through to the pub from the hospital phone wasn’t exactly the most informative, and while Fancy could certainly do with learning how to relay information a bit more succinctly, he got the message across. Adam Lomas found Gael Edwards collapsed on the floor of the station, unresponsive and feverish. An ambulance had come to collect him right away and Fancy and Lomas had gone along with them. As the constable told it, the doctors were saying that Gael was in no immediate danger, but his condition was somewhat baffling to them. 

In short, they didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. 

What Thursday knew, however, was that young men Gael’s age didn’t just collapse without reason. Morse knew that too. In fact, Morse seemed to be the one who had the best idea of what had happened to him, and if he was even half right about all of it then it was vitally important that he did what he needed to do before coming to Gael’s side. Henry Auden had left behind a message for Morse after his death, a message that Morse turned into instructions. 

If anyone could end this, it was Morse. It had to be him. 

“Sir,” Fancy jumped up from a chair in the curtained area around Gael’s hospital bed, skirting around the small group of doctors and nurses crowding the cot to reach the inspector. There was deep concern across his young face as he looked over at Gael before turning back to Thursday, fidgeting with a small deck of cards nervously. “I- I wasn’t sure what to do and they said I could sit here while they worked, I just thought it would be good if he- well, if he wasn’t on his own. Sir.”

_ Bless the lad’s heart. _ Thursday held back a smile as he clapped Fancy’s shoulder, nodding approvingly. He was a brazen one at times, but he was one of the good ones, that much was certain. “You did well, constable. Any change?”

Fancy continued to fidget with the cards, shuffling the deck with fluttering fingers as he shook his head. “He’s getting worse. He was talking for a bit, didn’t make much sense what he was saying, but I think he was asking for Morse.” Fancy looked up from his cards, blinking curiously with his brow furrowed as if he’d just now noticed the sergeant’s absence. “Where is he? I thought-”

“There’s something he had to do first,” Thursday said curtly, gripping his hat tight in his hands. Lomas wasn’t anywhere in sight, but it was best to keep this quiet in any case. “He’ll be ‘round in a few minutes.”

The constable didn’t look satisfied with this answer, opening his mouth to ask another question, but was abruptly cut off as a low, keening sound of distress came from the bed and both he and the inspector quickly turned toward the source of it, worried by what they were seeing. 

Gael was trashing combatatively against the nurses as they struggled to keep him down against the cot, his skin flushed a horrible red that the various ice packs his movements had dislodged didn’t seem to have any luck in bringing down. He looked like he was burning from the inside out, breathing in short, shallow gasps that sounded painfully dry, his voice incoherent and rasping as he muttered nonsense to one of the nurses who only nodded sympathetically brushing his hair back from his brow as he suddenly slumped back down onto the bed like all the strength had vanished from him in a single heartbeat. 

Whatever paternal feelings he had toward Morse extended to Gael and Thursday almost surged forward toward him, throat tight with panic as he feared the worst, but it was his eyes that convinced him that the lad was still alive. They were wide with panic, blinking frantically and darting back and forth like he was searching for something unseen to the rest of them. They were tinged red like the rest of him, bloodshot and dry. The deep blue irises were eclipsed by his dilated pupils, making them look almost entirely black. There was something positively mad about the way he seemed then, completely gone, lost to the world around him and consumed by whatever it was that was affecting him this way. Eventually, those frightened eyes slid shut, and Gael moaned, turning his face into the pillow, fingers scrabbling senselessly at the sheets while the doctor placed another layer of tape over the IV in the back of his hand to keep it from being accidentally removed. 

A nurse placed a damp cloth against Gael’s forehead and Thursday felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest as he watched the man quickly throw it aside as if seized by a sudden panic once again. His eyes were wide and manic as he began thrashing again, pulling frantically at his shirt and arching off the bed like he was being suffocated by anything that touched him. The heart monitor began to chirp urgently and the doctor began to bark something at a nurse before suddenly, just like he had moments ago, Gael stopped, collapsing into a prone silence once again. 

_ Thank heavens Morse didn’t have to see this now.  _

The inspector couldn’t stand aside any longer, reaching forward and grabbing the doctor by the shoulder a bit more roughly than he intended to. His voice was gruff with concern and anger- anger at the person who’d done this to such an innocent man. “What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor pushed Thursday’s hand away, somehow managing to not look too irritated and cast a glance at the nurse that brought the inspector over. “Selene, take over here for a few minutes, would you?”

“Yes, Dr. Gauthier,” the nurse- Selene- nodded, and Thursday was forced to tear his eyes away from Gael as he and Fancy followed the doctor a few paces away to where they could stand and talk without obstructing the nurses. 

Dr. Gauthier, a tall, balding man, looked Thursday up and down briefly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “Are you family, sir?”

_ In a way, possibly,  _ Thursday almost said, thinking of Morse. Instead, he shook his head, producing his warrant card to present to him. “Inspector Thursday, Oxford City Police. Mr. Edwards is a close friend of my son’s, he collapsed in our station earlier.”

It was the truest answer he could provide without instigating any awkwardness, but thankfully Gauthier seemed content with that, his shoulders sagging as he sighed. “Well, inspector, since you were watching that short spectacle a few moments ago I think you might have a slight grasp of what we’re dealing with.”

“He’s been poisoned, then?” Thursday recalled what Morse had said in the car. Seeing Gael now had all but confirmed it for him, but it would do good to hear the doctor say it.

Gauthier shook his head slightly, rubbing his brow as he looked down at the floor. “No, no, if he’d been poisoned we’d be seeing a much different set of symptoms. I don’t mean to be pedantic, but drugged is the more accurate term for this. Though I’ll be frank, Inspector Thursday, I have no idea what kind of drug would do this to him. It’s nothing off the street, that much I can say with any certainty.”

That made sense. From what Morse told Thursday about Dr. DeBryn’s report on Auden, the man had succumbed to something in the same vein.  _ An unusual type of poison,  _ the pathologist had said. An unusual drug perhaps, elevated to poison by such a high dose. 

“What’s that thing he’s doing with his hands?” Fancy cut in, looking both confused and curious as he demonstrated, tugging at his own shirt the way Gael had done with his clothes and sheets. When Thursday looked over now, he could see Gael doing it again, pulling erratically- almost compulsively- at his shirt, surprisingly dry considering how feverish he appeared. “It’s like he’s trying to take it off.”

“Ah, observant,” Dr. Gauthier spared the constable a tired smile, but the compliment seemed to pass Fancy over entirely. “Yes, we thought it might have been part of the hallucinations, but I think it’s more likely to be a neurological symptom caused by the drug. It’s a phantom behaviour, these grasping motions and attempts to remove his clothes- though that could also be his subconscious way of trying to relieve the temperature.”

“How do you know he’s having hallucinations?” Fancy folded his arms across his chest, frowning slightly. 

“We don’t. Not for certain,” Gauthier said patiently, doing his utmost to answer the constable’s persistent curiosity. “His eyes are severely dilated which means his vision is blurred, so it’s unlikely he’s seeing much of anything, and he doesn’t respond to any visual cues from the nurses, but his eyes track and fix on things so I assume there’s at least something he’s responding to.”

“His fever?” Thursday asked, thinking of how flushed Gael’s skin looked. He was almost afraid to think of how hot it would feel if he touched it, and he could only imagine how the man was coping with being trapped in it. 

No, he didn’t have to imagine. Because Gael was right there. 

“His temperature is 38 and slowly rising.” Gauthier seemed truly worried as he wrung his hands, looking over at his patient once again. “It’s not that it’s a fever per se. If it was as simple as that, you’d see far more perspiration, his entire shirt would probably be soaked through, but he’s dry as a bone. His body has stopped producing sweat and expelling heat which is causing his core temperature to rise, that’s why you see the redness of his skin, the flushing. We might need to put him in a bath if it gets any higher, but I don’t want to move him when his heart rate is so high.” The doctor sighed again, scratching the back of his head. “Besides, he could end up hurting himself if he has one of those episodes again. The most we can do is make sure he’s hydrated with the IV and keep cold compresses on him.”

“Is he-” Thursday took a deep breath, preparing himself to ask the question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. “Is he in pain?”

Dr. Gauthier shook his head defeatedly, looking slightly helpless. “Unfortunately we just don’t know. He’s very clearly in distress and none of his symptoms add up to a pleasant experience, but I wouldn’t say he’s in pain. That could change at any moment, however. I have no idea what course his symptoms will take, not until we figure out what he’s been drugged with.”

“I think I can help with that,” Thursday grumbled darkly, looking around the ward for Adam Lomas but unable to find him anywhere in sight. “The man that came in with Gael- Mr. Edwards- he looks a bit similar, rounder face and green eyes, where is he?”

The doctor seemed at a loss but Fancy nodded up toward the ceiling. “Lomas went up to look for that woman, Eva Auden, I think. The other bloke from Special Branch came by and they both left to find her.”

_ So he was still in the building.  _ That could prove to be useful if they managed to keep him inside. There would be no way for him to reach Gael now, not with both Fancy, Thursday, and all the hospital personnel surrounding him. But Mrs. Auden- could she be a loose end? Malahide’s presence was a mystery, and Thursday had never managed to figure that man out, but if he was with Lomas then it was a given that he wasn’t to be trusted. 

“Are you armed?” Thursday finally asked, looking to his constable. 

Fancy nodded. 

_ Good.  _

“Bring him back down here,” Thursday ordered, setting his jaw firmly. “And don’t take no for an answer.”

“Yes, sir,” Fancy nodded again and quickly set off through the double doors, gone within seconds. 

Once he was out of sight, Dr. Gauthier reached out to touch the inspector’s arm lightly, guiding him a bit further away from the nurses as he reached into his pocket, withdrawing something in his closed fist. There was something tremendously solemn in his aged eyes as he looked up at Thursday, his voice light as if he were treading carefully with his next words. “Inspector, one of the nurses thought I should give this to someone close to Mr. Edwards. I think you might be the man to see it’s delivered safely in the event that he doesn’t recover- and I fear that could become a very real possibility if we’re unable to control his temperature.”

“What is it, doctor?” Thursday frowned, holding out his hand for Gauthier to drop the object in his palm.

It was a thin necklace chain with two rings strung on it in place of a charm, one gold, one silver, and the weight of them alone was enough to convince Thursday that the precious metals which constructed the artful bands was real enough by any standard. 

Odd. He’d never taken Gael for the jewelry type, and they seemed rather expensive for a man of his salary, but closer inspection told a much clearer story. 

They were both roughly the same size and had the same design wrought on the bands- a Claddagh, two hands holding a crowned heart. Considering Gael was from Ireland it wasn’t all that surprising to see. The silver of the two was undoubtedly much older, the pale metal scratched and worn from many years of ownership. But the gold one was in perfect condition, so new that it… 

Thursday froze, his heart sinking in his chest as he stared at the ring, holding it up to the light. 

_ …that it could have been bought today.  _

In fact, it probably was. 

“I don’t know much about Edwards, we almost never work on the same ward,” Gauthier said quietly, taking notice of the expression on the inspector’s face. “But I figure he’s got a girl, someone he cares about.”

Thursday closed his hand around the rings and placed them safely in his pocket, still held together by the necklace, his voice tight when he spoke. “He hasn’t got a girl.”

“Ah, I see.” Gauthier smiled sadly, giving the inspector a nod before returning to his patient. 

_ No, I don’t think you do,  _ Thursday thought miserably, watching as he headed off. 

Life had the worst timing. 

———

_ Morse- _

_ I know it’s Adam now. It doesn’t make sense for it to be anyone but him. You should know that Lomas has always been good at getting people to think the way he wants them to, he has been since the day we both met him. I used to think that was an asset- until I saw what he was doing to you. I write this knowing you haven’t figured it out yet, and I write this knowing these will likely be the last words you ever hear from me if you succeed in locating my briefcase before our old friend. I write this because I never stopped caring about you in all this time- as a friend, and as what could have been had things gone differently for the both of us back then.  _

_ Seven years later and you still defended him. Still despised me. I suppose some of that is deserved- no, much of it. I don’t expect you to think highly of me after I say what I need to say- what I should have said all those years ago- but I do hope you’ll believe me. I could not save you then, so my only hope is to save you now. The truth of it is that when I told you we would meet again in two days I had no intention of keeping that promise. My trust in you had degenerated vastly over the course of our conversation outside of the pub, though I know it was no fault of your own and I presume I will shortly be paying the price for my stupidity.  _

_ This will not be something you will want to hear since it’s clear to me that you still hold Adam Lomas to some regard- not romantic anymore, perhaps, though I couldn’t help notice the slight similarities between him and Gael Edwards. In a way, from what I’ve seen, he shares some of Adam’s best qualities- at least, what we thought them to be. He’s brave, confident, and clearly protective of you. It was him, among other things, that made me wonder: What is Adam Lomas to you now? Do you still feel him inside your head, or does his influence continue to reside in your considerably large blind spot for those you feel attachment to? See, when I heard you speak today, I couldn’t hear you. All I heard was Adam. His words, your voice. I thought that seven years apart would cause his hold over you to wane, but he’s not one for doing things halfway. I feared that he had gotten to you before me, or that he would soon get to you and poison you against me once again. Some of that venom still lingered, coming to light during our short conversation, enough to scare me off. You could not imagine my surprise when I heard that you went with Adam after you were released from custody. I never saw you back at the Tiergarten house and Adam told me he’d found somewhere for the both of you to stay while things were sorted out. That didn’t change the fact that you walked out of that base with a brace on your arm and bruises up your ribs and spine from the stairs he threw you down. Yes, I read your medical report. One of my lesser sins, but I should like to confess it regardless. He hurt you in that flash of anger, that abrupt presentation of his true nature. He could have killed you. He tried and very nearly succeeded in killing John himself. And, regrettably, he succeeded in convincing me to finish the job. I cannot wash John Warlow’s blood from my hands, but that stain is not mine alone.  _

_ If you look back on it now, I wonder if you can see what I saw. You and Adam, happy together for a month, drunk from the high of newfound affection- dare I say love? I’m sure you loved him with everything you had, that’s simply the way you are, Morse, but I regret to say that he likely never felt anything close to that toward you. It’s important that you know that now before you let him in again, or before he forces his way back into your life.  _

_ Did you feel him pulling you away from the rest of us? From me, in particular? I think he knew. He knew that I knew what he was up to with you. At the time I thought it was just a hidden abusive streak in his nature, something within him that made him desire to control or manipulate those he was in relationships with. I’d seen men like that before, and I’m sure you have as a copper. I intended to confront you about him before we shipped out that next morning, to warn you away from continuing your relationship with him, to stop you joining him wherever he was assigned next. What you two had was not healthy, and it took me far too long to realise it. I won’t reveal the things he said about you while drunk for they are not worth repeating in any form. But only now I realize how strategic his manipulations really were. Adam made you into the perfect ally. He took advantage of your open heart and pulled you close, and I’m not sure he ever let go. If he had enough time, he would have converted you to his cause- he may even try to now, but back then he simply settled for making us all fools as he carried out his traitorous acts and made us believe he was innocent. Do you remember how readily I thought to fake John’s suicide and protect Adam from the consequences of the murder? It didn’t shock me then, but it sickens me now to think that he was so far into my own head that I would do such a thing. I think he knew that it would only be so long before he was discovered. What role did he have planned for you when that happened? Would you merely be an alibi, or was he grooming you as an accomplice? Given what I now know about him, with Kane’s death and Bulgakov’s disappearance, I have no choice but to believe that if and when Adam felt the net begin to close around him he would have killed and framed you to hide his crimes. You would have been his sacrifice, not John. _

_ I now believe I have the clearest sense of what happened that night in Berlin. Things fell apart too swiftly once we got word that the wall was going up, much faster than Adam anticipated. With our unit being dissolved the entire house would have to be cleared, all of our papers and work would be taken in. Adam’s evidence would be discovered. All the carbon paper copies of transmissions he’d stolen and was slowly shelling out to the Russians, his own communications that he had yet to get rid of, those damning cilly messages. He had no way of disposing anything, a fire that early in August and that late at night would rouse suspicion, and he couldn’t risk getting caught leaving the house. If he had plans for you to take the fall for him, they would no longer work. You and I shared a room then, and he knew I had a gun. John, however, had a room alone. I believe that Adam quietly subdued John and began to plant the evidence in his room, counting on him coming to at some point in order to instigate the fight which woke us all up. Perhaps he got lucky in failing to kill John, his running away certainly fueled the image of his guilt, but the mistake was that it gave John time enough to convince you of his innocence. Adam spent far too much time pulling you away from me to wean you from your relationship with John. Warlow was like an older brother to you- he expressed this same sentiment to me once, admitting that he considered you the closest thing to a brother he never had. My own affection toward you, my poorly timed declaration of love, triggered a possessiveness in Adam. I became a larger threat than John. Lomas may play God, but he cannot account for everything. I hope that weakness will undo him soon enough.  _

_ I have begun to doubt everyone in my life, even my dear wife, Eva. You remember how close they were during the times she came to visit John in Berlin. While Adam would never feel romantic inclinations toward Eva- or any woman for that matter- I still believe there is something between them. I think Eva has been in love with him for quite some time, perhaps even since Berlin. If I’m being honest, there have been many times where I thought she only agreed to marry me because she knew I would be close with Adam. Or maybe he hasn’t rejected her outright and he’s leading her on. I don’t know. Even though he is unavailable to her, they remain in each other’s lives through me. In any case, I’ve invited her up to Oxford with me since I don’t think Adam will make a move against me with her around. She showed up much too early, though- I saw her car while we were talking at the pub and had to rush off to meet her where she’s staying. She’s watching a friend’s house while they’re out of town which is dreadfully convenient. It’s best she doesn’t know about this small base I’ve set up in my room at the inn, for I fear she may inadvertently disclose something to him. Or deliberately. My newfound paranoia has no bounds, but I am not immune to blind spots of my own.  _

_ He’s far too cunning for the police, so I’m setting a trap for him myself. I located Soren Doyle as I said I would and gave him some of the encrypted messages to see if he would have any luck in cracking the code. When Adam returns from Glasgow he’ll come looking for Soren, and I’ll be waiting. You should know that I’m willing to kill him if it comes to it, and I will turn myself over to Oxford City Police if such a thing occurs. I will hide this letter with the remainder of the evidence. In the event that I fail in taking Adam down- a failure that will surely result in my death- I want you to take these and do what you see fit. I trust you to do what is right. I am almost glad for my lapse in judgement earlier, for that nagging urge to not trust you then. It kept me from involving you more than I should have. I should never have gone to you about this. You deserve better than to be caught up in my deadly game and my conscience will never be clear if I allow you to become hurt in the crossfire. But, if I haven’t returned for these papers and you’ve found them instead, then please understand I am likely dead or incapacitated and have run out of all other options. If I die, it comes down to you. I’m truly sorry for that. _

_ Adam Lomas is like an eclipse, Morse. He blinds those around him to anything but what he wants. Some part of you knows this, you may have even had your doubts back in Berlin before I made things worse by having you arrested, giving him the chance to dig his claws in deeper than ever. I have to believe that you have enough doubt about him now for my words to reach you. I fear I’ve only ruined everything for you by bringing this fight to your door. You have a life now, a good one, with a good man. You have no need for my blessing, but I heartily extend it to you both. Gael is not Adam. Better yet, he’s not me. Because I may have endangered you and him.  _

_ You know a man is good because of his actions. My intentions may have been that of a good man, but my actions were not. I was no better than Adam. I’d like to think I am now. There are any things I’m still unsure of regarding the spy- regarding Adam- but as of writing this I have yet to figure them out.  _

_ Eva believes in a life after this. If my death is to come soon, I wonder if I will see John there. I wonder if he’ll forgive me. If Declan will. I hope you find Mikhail alive. If not, I hope he can find it within himself to forgive me as well. I fear you and I may be too far gone for forgiveness, so I will only hope for understanding. Adam Lomas was in my head too. Trust me when I say that he doesn’t leave, not on his own. Like a cancer, he must be removed.  _

_ I’m meeting Eva for drinks soon. I’ll hide this then. I truly hope you never have to read these words, Morse. I hope I can resolve this conflict and be out of your life before I bring ruin to your happiness. I hope for a great many things that are not likely to come to pass.  _

_ Goodbye, old friend.  _

_ Signed,  _

_ Henry William Matthew Auden _

———

Morse folded the letter up as small as he could and stowed it away in his pocket, tears prickling his eyes and he looked up to stare blankly at the empty hospital cot that had been occupied only mere minutes before. Disheveled sheets and the faint imprint of where a body once lay, that was all that remained with him after Gael had been taken away by the nurses- something to do with bringing his temperature down, though Morse couldn’t be entirely sure. He only had a minute to sit at Gael’s side before a nurse began speaking urgently to the doctor, and then everyone was moving much too quickly, speaking far too loudly, and suddenly Gael was on a gurney, being wheeled through the far doors. 

_ Don’t leave,  _ Morse had silently pleaded, meaning it in every way possible. But there was nothing to be done.

Twenty minutes ago. That’s when he should have walked through those doors with Thursday. He should have taken those cursed papers to the incinerator in the hospital’s basement and been done with them. It was Morse who should have been with Gael, not Fancy or Thursday.

He should have had more time. 

But of course he couldn’t be so lucky.

He just had to hope it would be worth it.

Morse drew in an unsteady breath and blinked the tears back, tilting his head to focus his gaze on the ceiling tiles above him as a debilitating wave of helplessness and despair crested over him, threatening to fall if he lost his composure for even the briefest moment. 

_ How did Gael do this?  _

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his head falling to his hands as he exhaled deeply, feeling all the energy bleed from his body in that single moment. It was Gael that usually found himself keeping vigil at Morse’s bedside in the hospital, not the other way around. Time and time again. Being in his position now, Morse couldn’t understand how Gael managed it. He wished he could ask him now, wished he could look up and see those kind blue eyes staring back at him, steady hands clasping around his own and wordlessly bringing down the volume of the barrage of thoughts in his head. 

_ How do you do this, Gael? How do you sit here and wait, drowning in uncertainty and helplessness? What do I do, knowing there’s nothing I can do but hope?  _

_ Is that what you would do? Would you hope? Or did you somehow know I would pull through each time?  _

If things went wrong, there was little more Morse could do to prepare for what was to come.

_ It was Adam.  _

After all the lies and confusion, all the deception and manipulation, the smoke had finally cleared. Morse wished he could feel some modicum of gratitude for Henry’s confessions, but all he felt was a dull ache in his chest where he knew his heart to be. 

It was hard to not feel guilt, as misplaced as it was. How often had he doubted the genesis of his own thoughts about Auden lately? How often had the voice in his mind taken on the smooth tone of Adam Lomas? It had been confusing, off putting, but he paid it no mind. The contradictions and half truths seemed to fit together so seamlessly, but now he could see them for the patchwork forgery that they were. 

Auden’s warnings were much too late. The damage had already been done. Morse had let Lomas fool him once again, let him pull the wool back down over his eyes and make him doubt everything all over again. Only this time it was Gael who paid the price. 

All this violence, all this suffering.  _ All for a bloody case of papers.  _

The briefcase was battered and well used, nothing more than a glorified folder that Morse had seen many a college don carry around tucked beneath their arm, bulging with ungraded term papers, clasped tight with straining ties. Henry’s had a zipper that had long since been broken, the thin metal forced apart under considerable strain from the bulging papers crammed within. Now, it was awkwardly hidden under the spare tyre in the boot of the Jag. Not much luck to be had if Lomas took it upon himself to search the vehicle, but as far as he knew those papers were still lost. He had no way of knowing Morse was in possession of them now. 

Though it wouldn’t be surprising if he did. 

“Why him?” Morse finally looked to Thursday, the inspector standing like a silent sentinel at his side. He swallowed roughly, glancing at the vacant cot, wondering when Gael would return. Whether he would be in any better condition when he did. 

Thursday fixed him with a look, shaking his head. “Don’t you start thinking like that, it won’t do you any good, I promise you that.”

“No, sir, I-” Morse wrung his hands in frustration, reaching up to tug his earlobe before noticing what he was doing and forcing his hand back down. He wasn’t quite sure how to articulate his confusion to the inspector, couldn’t find the words to get it out of his head. 

It just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like Gael had gotten caught in the crossfire, it was no accident. Poisoning- drugging- whatever the doctor wanted to call it, it was a calculated and deliberate act. Lomas would have planned and executed it with great precision, and Morse couldn’t help but worry that had it not been for him discovering Henry’s message at that moment he might have continued to believe that Lomas was innocent. He might not have even considered him a suspect. 

Morse wanted to seize the edge of his chair and fling it at the nearest wall, but his despair was keeping his rage at bay, subduing his anger and fury at the man responsible. Gael had no part of this. He knew nothing. If Lomas had given him a chance, Gael would have told him exactly that. Could it just have been that Lomas didn’t believe him? Or could it have been something else entirely?

Trewlove’s earlier warning about Lomas seemed to make sense now with Henry’s final message to support her concerns. 

_ Was this about Morse now? _

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t even want to consider the fact that Lomas might still harbour some twisted form of affection toward him. It was the kind of obsession that reminded him too much of Mason Gull, of Edmund Varley, now nothing but ghosts of past evil. Bad memories and worse dreams.

Morse swallowed roughly, reaching up to touch the bandage that wound around his throat. Lomas may not have been the man holding the knife, but it was all his doing. Somehow, Adam must have orchestrated their earlier attack. He planned the car crash, he ensured that they would emerge unscathed. In one fell stroke, he painted himself as both hero and victim. 

And it had worked. 

What was it about him that drew their kind to him? How could they be so prevalent in his life if not for some grand deficit, some cruel twist of fate? The kinds of people that saw others as a means to an end, that didn’t care what damage they wrought upon those around them. He thought it would end with Susan. He thought it would end when his father died. He thought it would end with the bullet in Gull’s back and the lock on Varley’s cell. 

He thought he could leave Adam Lomas behind in Berlin and never have to think about him or Henry Auden again. 

Was this somehow his fault? If Gael died, who would Morse blame? The man who killed him or the one who brought the killer into his life? Himself?

The very first day they met, Gull had almost killed Gael to get through him- to get to Morse. Gael’s arm was broken for his troubles, and now he was stricken with something that was all but literally burning away at him from the inside out. Something that had twisted his mind and body, stripped him of all control and sense and left nothing behind but suffering.

In that brief minute they had together, Morse wasn’t even sure if Gael knew he was there. 

He didn’t know if this would kill Gael. But if Lomas wanted it to, it would. 

But Morse knew the mercy of Adam Lomas was not something to be counted on. 

“Morse,” Thursday said gently, stirring him from his thoughts and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you won’t do him any good sitting here while Lomas is still free. Why don’t you go help Fancy-”

“I can’t do that, sir.” Morse shook his head. He knew Thursday meant well, that he likely just wanted to give him something to do, a task to occupy his mind elsewhere rather than spiral into misery like he had been ever since he walked through the doors. He just wasn’t ready to leave yet. He wasn’t ready to face Lomas.

He wasn’t ready to face his failure.

“Morse-”

“Gael has a necklace,” Morse said abruptly, desperate to change the subject, to talk about anything else. Somehow, that was the first thing that came to mind. He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat before speaking again. “There’s- there’s a ring on it. It used to be his father’s. He’d want that to be safe.”

“It’s right here,” Thursday patted his pocket reassuringly, though there was something unreadable in his expression, something that Morse wasn’t sure he wanted to decipher just then. “Only…there’s two rings, Morse.”

He didn’t know what he was talking about. Morse shook his head, looking down at his hands. “No, it’s just the one.”

“I didn’t learn to count yesterday, son.” Thursday withdrew the necklace from his pocket, letting it fall lightly into Morse’s palm. “Here.”

Morse was half ready to scoff at him and ask what this was all about, but sure enough, to his surprise and confusion, Thursday was telling the truth. The familiar silver Claddagh band now had a gold counterpart strung on the necklace beside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Morse unclasped the chain and removed the new ring, turning it over in his hand. Instinctively, he placed it on his finger, unsurprised that it fit perfectly. Gael’s hands weren’t much bigger than his anyway, of course the size would be the same.

“He didn’t have this yesterday,” Morse glanced over at the inspector, brow furrowed as he turned back to the ring, returning it to the chain. There was a soft metallic sound as it hit Gael’s ring, silver and gold glinting beautifully together even under the harsh hospital lights. “I don’t understand why he’d want another. They’re practically identical.”

Thursday’s eyes were sad as he sat on the edge of the hospital bed in front of him, forcing him to meet his gaze. There was something almost… patient in the way he was looking at Morse. Patience touched with sorrow. “That they are, Morse”

“But why-” 

And then he knew. 

Because there really was no other reason for Gael to suddenly be in possession of a new ring the day after they moved into their first flat together. The same exact design. Gold complimenting silver. 

It was for Morse.

He felt his throat become tight with emotion, and the tears returned to his eyes as he closed his hand around the two rings, but, before those tears could fall, there was a loud sound from the floor above them that split the air like a lightning strike. And another. Two short thunderous bursts of sound that could have only been one thing.

Gunshots. 

Someone began screaming in the outer corridor and the ward was suddenly alive with action as nurses rushed to their patients and people began to panic. Thursday jumped to his feet, eyes wide as he reached for his own weapon and Morse felt his hammering heart climb into his throat as he cautiously stood, staring at the doors as if waiting for whatever threat was beyond to make itself known. 

But there was nothing but shouts from outside for several minutes before a familiar voice cut through all of it and the doors burst finally open. Thursday raised his weapon, taking aim, but it was George Fancy who rushed into the ward, his face flushed from running and eyes panicked as he sought out Morse and Thursday. His own weapon was held tight in his hand but he thankfully seemed unharmed, just panicked. 

“Eva Auden’s gone missing,” Fancy gasped, massaging a stitch in his side as he fought to catch his breath. “There’s a nurse that’s been knocked unconscious. Lomas saw my weapon and shot at me, I think I might have hit him but I can’t be sure. He got away, but I managed to catch up to Malahide and cuff him to the railing in the stairwell. I asked around and there’s an ambulance that’s just gone out on a run, they could have stowed away.”

This wasn’t good. The last time Lomas had become trapped and desperate he’d almost brutally murdered John Warlow. Desperation made him dangerous. Volatile. Morse knew that now. 

There was no telling what he would do next. Where he would go. 

All Morse knew was that seven had become two. 

It was down to him and Lomas. 

They were the last ones standing. Adam Lomas’ bloody trail stretched from Berlin to Oxford, and now that the net was finally closing around him, now that the noose was around his own neck, what would he do?

Would he do what Henry thought he intended to all those years ago?

Would he try and kill Morse?

Thursday quickly handed his gun to Morse, pressing it into his free hand urgently. “Get to the Jag and radio for backup, Fancy and I will follow the ambulance. I want you to head back to the nick where you’ll be safe in case Lomas gets any funny ideas and decides to go after you.”

“But, sir-” Morse protested, looking over at the doors on the other side of the ward where Gael had been taken. 

He couldn’t possibly leave now-

But he had to. 

“Go!” Thursday barked, and it was clear then that there would be no more arguments on the subject.

The empty hospital bed looked like a promise waiting to be kept, its existence somehow a weak assurance that Gael would return to it soon enough. 

It seemed that Morse would just miss him again. 

So long as they both returned there, everything would be just fine. That was the promise Morse could make. Something he could hold onto. 

Maybe that was how Gael did it. Every bedside vigil was a promise kept, a reassurance that he would be at Morse’s side no matter what happened. A promise that in spite of everything, they would both be there. Together. Alive. 

Morse clasped Gael’s necklace around his own throat and tucked it safely beneath his shirt before shifting the gun in his grip and taking off running from the ward. He ran as fast as he was able, pushing past nurses and dodging a gurney as he raced down the short corridor, looking around frantically before finding his way to the front reception and bursting through the same doors he’d come through not so long ago.

The afternoon sun was almost blinding as Morse hurried through the car park, searching out the dark Jaguar and hurriedly climbing in the driver’s side, setting the gun aside on the other seat as he reached for the radio-

And that was when the passenger door was wrenched open and the gun was seized from the seat, the intruder collapsing into the vehicle beside Morse and leveling the weapon at his head. 

Blood coated the right side of Adam’s face, a shallow gouge from a grazed bullet streaking across the side of his head. George Fancy had managed to hit him after all, but something like this wouldn’t be enough to stop a man like Lomas. The wound was bleeding profusely, but he hardly seemed to notice, his green eyes almost manic as they bore into Morse’s own. 

_ Those flecks of gold really did look like drops of poison.  _

A bullet clicked into the chamber and Lomas bared his teeth in a snarl, pressing the gun into Morse’s neck. 

_ “Drive.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Truth and Consequences
> 
> GOD this chapter sucks so bad, but I haven't updated since September and I really just wanted to get this out there. Apparently this devolved from a crime fic to a soap real quick in this chapter 
> 
> Anyway, this fic is probably 2-3 more chapters away from being completed, but I have a handful of wips going right now so I'm not sure when the next update will be, especially since I have work and school, but I promise this story will have its happy ending


End file.
